A Love For The Ages
by Anonymoustache
Summary: Written for the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, TLC, and, of course, beautiful, beautiful Johnlock.
1. Linked Through Heart

A/N; Well, here it is; my first go at the 30 Day OTP Challenge. How exciting :D

While I definitely WILL be writing one piece every day, I can't promise that they'll be posted the exact day they're written. The 'rents get touchy about internet data usage, so I usually have to sneak around every which way to get _regular_ stories posted. That said, i'll do my very, very best to post them ASAP, but no promises. Deal? *passes around chocolate peanut butter bribery cookies* Bear with me, friends.

The first one is "holding hands". Hopefully I did it justice :)

Ta,

Anonymoustache

* * *

John peered out the window. The sky was dark, thick white flakes falling gently from above. Baker Street was lit with a gentle, warm glow from the candles they had been forced to use when the electricity had gone out.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

John jumped as Sherlock's silky baritone sounded directly behind him. The detective stepped forward, arm brushing John's gently. The army doctor relaxed, leaning into Sherlock's comfortable warmth.

"Yes," John breathed, mesmerized. "It's amazing."

"I used to be fascinated by snow when I was young," Sherlock mused, leaning his head on top of John's in a subtle gesture of pure love. "Silly child that I was, I thought that snow was the tears of angels from above."

"You were a very poetic child," John whispered, giving Sherlock a crooked half-moon grin.

"Yes, I suppose," Sherlock said. "Until Mycroft told me that snow was just crystallized water."

"Ah," John said, nodding, "Reality strikes."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "After that, snow was just another product of nature in my mind."

A weighty silence filled the room, the sort that carries meaning, but is comfortable all the same. The air was thick, Sherlock's body cozy and warm next to John.

"This evening, however…" Sherlock said, "I somehow find the snow as fascinating as I did all those years ago, as a mere child." His eyes flitted to the window sill above them, glittering icicles shining in the rich yellow moonlight. "I don't know what makes it so, and I doubt I will ever figure it out."

John smiled. "Maybe it's me," he said jokingly.

Sherlock looked down at John, brilliant blue-green eyes shining softly in the delicate glow of the room. "It's _always_ you, John."

His hand came up and gently brushed against John's smooth-shaven, tan skin of his neck. "No matter how far I go, no matter how much I try and erase…it's always you."

He leaned down and whispered in John's ear, eyelashes tickling his cheek.

"It always has been, and I'm fairly sure it always will be."

He turned his eyes back out the window, hand slipping down to rest tentatively beside John's. John turned his palm to face Sherlock's, mirroring his long, slender violin hands. Sherlock's fingers carefully crept over and wound their way around John's weather-beaten, battle-scarred ones. He squeezed, ever so gently, as if just letting the other man know he was still there.

They stayed like that for several minutes more, a warm, comfortable, understanding quiet surrounding them, linked by a simple connection of fingers weaving together in what Sherlock would only describe as a paradoxical orchestra of silence.

They were linked not only through hand, but through heart.


	2. Never Going To Change

_A/N; Well, this one was cuddling. As usual, I haaaaaad to make it hurt/comfort. It's like a drug XP_

_Enjoy!_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

Sherlock threw open the door and stomped into the living room, dropping his coat and scarf onto the floor behind him as though he was shedding a second skin. He trudged across the room, yanked open the bedroom door, and slammed it shut behind him, not saying a word.

John looked up from his book, eyebrows raised. It wasn't often that Sherlock came home from a case at the Yard in a mood, but when he did, it didn't go well at all.

The army doctor set down his book with a sigh and mentally prepared himself to get up and go confront and comfort a certain grumpy detective. However, to his great surprise, just a few seconds later the bedroom door opened and said detective emerged, wearing his pyjamas and wrapped in his worn blue dressing gown. Sherlock walked across the living room, right over the coffee table as though it wasn't even there, and plopped his body down onto the couch. He leaned over, placing his head in John's lap, and stilled, hands resting at his side.

John carefully carded his hands through the thick brown curls on the detective's head. "Bad day, sweetheart?" he asked, hoping Sherlock wasn't going to shut him out this time.

"You wouldn't believe it, John. The absolute _idiocy_ of the world. I swear to god, sometimes I just want to leave it."

John went pale and turned Sherlock's head upwards to face him. "Don't you ever say that. Not…not after last time. Not ever. Do you understand?"

Sherlock's eyes widened during John's speech, then crinkled with sad understanding. "I'm sorry, John. I keep…forgetting. I'm so sorry. You know I didn't mean that."

"I know, 'Lock," John said softly. He continued to rub Sherlock's scalp. "I just want to make sure you know how much you're loved from this party here." He grinned down at his lover.

Sherlock nodded, looking a bit self-conscious. He turned his head and looked towards the wall, filling the room with a comfortable, warm silence.

After several minutes, John slid down so that his body was pressed up next to Sherlock's. He pushed his hands up the back of Sherlock's dressing gown and shirt, fingers coming into contact with the warm alabaster skin of the detective's back. "So you going to tell me what happened?"

Sherlock wriggled, arching his back against John's fingers as they skimmed across the smooth surface. "Not much. Just Anderson and Donovan…they're still sleeping together, by the way," Sherlock said. John could just picture him rolling his eyes.

"What'd they say, 'Lock?" John asked kindly, rubbing small, gentle circles around Sherlock's sharp shoulder blades. "Because whatever it was, I'm absolutely positive it was wrong."

"The normal things. Freak, and weirdo, and that I…I get off on this…" Sherlock said, voice trailing off.

John pulled his hands out of Sherlock's shirt and placed his hands firmly on Sherlock's arms, gently rolling him over to face the army doctor. "Hey, hey," he said, seeing Sherlock's upset face. "What's wrong? It's never gotten to you before."

"I just…what if they're right, John?" Sherlock said. His eyes were almost black with worry. "What if I am a…a freak, a weirdo? What if everything they say is true?"

Sherlock looked down at his hands. His next phrase came out as a whisper.

"What if I _am_ ruining you?"

"Now hold on just a minute," John said. He gripped Sherlock's hands. "Did they say that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded miserably. "Donovan said that I'm a freak and that by making you stay with me I'm ruining you and turning you into a freak as well," he said, all in one breath.

His face was twisted in an expression John had never seen before and never wanted to see again. "John, what if they're right?"

John slid his hands down and grabbed Sherlock's hands, giving them a gentle squeeze before speaking. "Okay, one; how the hell could you believe that utter shit Donovan comes up with?" he said incredulously. "Sherlock, you are the single best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. There's no way you're ruining me. In fact, if you weren't here I'd probably be ruined." John took a breath. "And two, you don't _make_ me stay with you; I _choose_ to stay. And do you know why I choose to stay, 'Lock?"

Sherlock looked up at John, eyes watering slightly. "Why?" he asked, voice hoarse.

John put his arms carefully around Sherlock, cradling the detective close to his body.

"Because _I love you_, you git."

Sherlock buried his face in John's jumper, sealing any space there had been between them, body shaking ever so slightly. John rested his chin on the top of the detective's head, pushing his lips into the silky curls there.

"I love you more than anything, Sherlock. And that's never going to change."


	3. Movies More Often

"Sherlock? D'you wanna watch a movie with me?" John yelled, hoping for once Sherlock would agree.

"Why the hell would I want to watch some stupid television thing invented by the commonwealth?" he heard Sherlock yell from the bedroom.

John sighed. Obviously Sherlock was in one of his moods again. "Maybe because you love me?" he said quietly.

No response.

He rolled his eyes. Typical Sherlock.

John sat down on the couch, a cup of tea and a bag of crisps in front of him. He picked up the remote and was just about to press play when, to his surprise, the bedroom door opened and out came a disheveled, grumpy mess of detective, brown curls ruffled adorably atop his head.

Without saying a word, Sherlock walked over and threw himself down beside John, invading the army doctor's personal space without so much as a please.

Not that John minded. In fact, he had decided he rather liked finding himself with a lapful of detective.

John smiled fondly and pressed play as Sherlock cuddled up next to him, eyes already drooping. John had found, much to his delight, that one of the only things that could put Sherlock to sleep (besides the promise of good sex when he woke up) was watching a glaringly normal movie about glaringly normal people. The way John saw it, he got a night of much-needed relaxation and Sherlock got a night of much-needed sleep.

His hand slid around behind Sherlock's back and up his shirt, rubbing circles over his smooth alabaster skin. Sherlock leaned his head over and laid it on John's shoulders.

The opening credits were over, first scene starting.

Sherlock was already asleep, eyelashes fluttering gently as he entered a state of dreaming.

John smiled contentedly and looked up at the screen, watching the series of events, hand still rubbing circles on Sherlock's skin as though grounding him to the world even in his sleep.

* * *

Sherlock yawned and rubbed his eyes. The end credits of the movie were rolling. John's hand was still underneath his shirt, resting on his skin, still and reminding. He looked up to find John's eyes drooping, tired.

"Good movie, John?" he asked sleepily.

"Mmm. Yeah." John said, sitting up and stretching.

Sherlock smiled. He snuggled into John's side, pushing his face into the army doctor's favorite oatmeal-coloured jumper. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"'m glad too," John said. He yawned. "Should probably go to bed now, though."

Sherlock nodded, but when John tried to get up, he grabbed him around the middle and pouted. "No. Stay," he said grumpily.

"C'mon, Sh'lock, I gotta go to bed," John muttered, trying to detach the sleepy detective from around his middle.

"Jaaaaaaaaawn!" Sherlock said, eyelashes fluttering in his favorite damsel-in-distress look.

John sighed. "Lemme go to bed, 'Lock, and I promise that in the morning we can have hot 'n kinky sex before I go to work, 'kay?"

Sherlock frowned, lips pouting out in a perfect expression of a guilt trip. "Joooooooohn….I don't care. I wanna…I wanna…." He trailed off, realizing how needy he sounded. "Sorry," he apologized, straightening up and trying to regain any self-respect he ever had.

John almost melted. "Oh, Sherlock…it's totally natural to want a cuddle. It's fine. Just…look, come on to the bedroom, and then I can sleep and we can still be together. Okay?"

Sherlock hesitated, looking mildly ashamed.

"'Lock, I promise you, it's not weird at all. Everyone wants a cuddle sometimes. Even Moriarty."

Sherlock's face screwed up. "I didn't need that image, John. Nor the idea."

John laughed, that damned high-pitched giggle that Sherlock had always loved from the moment he first heard it that one night. "Sorry. But's it's totally natural, Sher, I promise."

Sherlock nodded, relieved. John extended a hand towards the detective. "Shall we?" he asked formally.

Sherlock nodded. "We shall," he responded, just as formally.

They walked towards the bedroom. As he opened the door and the two disappeared inside, he could have sworn he heard Sherlock whisper, "We should watch movies more often."


	4. Yes, We Do

"Sherlock! I'm home!"

Sherlock's head flew up from his experiment as he heard John's voice. He quickly turned off the Bunsen burner underneath his latest sample of human fingernails and walked out into the living room to see John hanging his coat on a hook.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, smiling. He walked up and laid a chaste kiss on John's lips. "Ready for date night tonight?"

"Oh, God, yes," John said, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made Sherlock feel all warm and fuzzy inside. He turned and put down his bag on the corner of the couch. "Where are we going?"

"I thought Angelo's," Sherlock said confidently. "Unless you have a better idea."

John shook his head, turning back around to smile at Sherlock. "Angelo's is perfect."

The doctor began to take off his tie when Sherlock stepped close to him. "Let me," he whispered. He gently took John's tie in his hands and slowly, almost seductively, undid it, staring into John's eyes intensely the entire time.

John gulped. There was only one person who could make his legs turn to jelly like this, and he was standing right in front of him.

"We'll leave in fifteen minutes," Sherlock whispered in John's ear, eyelashes tickling his cheek, low, rich baritone making him shiver. "Be ready, my dear."

John nodded his head, unable to speak. He turned and walked down the hallway, closing the door to their bedroom behind him with a quiet click.

* * *

Sherlock grinned. He loved how adorably cowed John became when he acted seductive like that. He walked back into the kitchen and turned the Bunsen burner back on, smiling the whole time because he knew that, no matter if this experiment worked out or not, it was gonna be one hell of a good night.

* * *

John pulled off his buttoned work shirt, stripping down to his white undershirt and pants. It had been a long day at work; not necessarily bad, but _long_. He pulled a striped black-and-white jumper, one that Sherlock seemed quite fond of, over his head and settled it down over his chest. He yanked a more casual pair of trousers up and over his red boxer briefs.

John always looked forward to date night. He and Sherlock were always close, even when they were apart. But date nights…date nights were special to him. It reminded him of their first date. That had also been at Angelo's, making that a very special place for them.

He looked in the small mirror over their dresser and carefully combed his hair, making sure it wasn't wild from a day of work, and headed out the door, knowing this would, as always, be an evening to remember.

* * *

Sherlock, wearing his safety goggles and carefully adding just a drop of a certain solution to the rat cells, pulled his head up as he heard John emerge from the bedroom and come out into the living room. He yanked off his safety goggles and threw them down onto the table, covering the rat cells with a thin cover slip. He straightened his purple shirt (he had worn it especially for John; it was the army doctor's favorite), dusted off his practically immaculate trousers, and stepped out of the kitchen.

John looked over at him from where he stood by the door, eyes melting as he looked at the detective; sleeves rolled up, hair mussed…not to mention _those damn tight trousers_.

"God, you're beautiful," he muttered, watching as Sherlock sauntered over to him.

"Why thank you, John," Sherlock purred. "And I can assure you that the compliment is multiplied tenfold and returned to you."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's complicated linguistics. "Oh, Sherlock," he said laughingly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, genuinely confused. "What?" he asked.

"Don't ever change, okay?" John said, reaching out and ruffling Sherlock's messy dark curls.

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "I'll attempt not to."

John only smiled in response. He took both their coats off the hook and handed Sherlock his.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked, keeping in tradition with their date night catch phrase.

John grinned, feeling extremely fond of the detective standing in front of him. "Starving," he said gently, taking Sherlock's hand in his.

The detective leaned over and opened the door, pulling John out behind him.

* * *

They ended up walking to Angelo's. 'A bit of fresh air will do us good, John' had been Sherlock's words, but John was pretty sure the detective just wanted an excuse to hold his hand while they walked. Either way, he wasn't complaining.

They did just that. Walked down the streets to Angelo's, hand in hand, laughing and giggling like maniacs. The sky was already dark, that lovely evening smell of London in the air, stars shining brightly against the dark velvet canvas. They were high on happiness and love, on that amazing feeling that used to only come at the end of a case.

By the time they made it to the restaurant, they were breathless and laughing, eyes shining. They entered Angelo's, the bell tinkling merrily to announce their arrival.

As they sat down at their favorite table at the window, Angelo came rushing over, grinning upon seeing his favorite couple. "Ah, Sherlock, John. How is life?" he asked, still smiling in that same way, that same mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Very good, Angelo," Sherlock said pleasantly. "We'll start off with the usual, thank you."

"Of course," Angelo said, beaming. "It's always an honor, Sherlock."

He turned away. "I'll get a candle for the table while I'm back there," he whispered, quoting the same words from that first dinner, "It's more romantic that way."

John looked fondly over at Sherlock, gently taking his hand. "We like romantic, don't we, Sherlock?" he said quietly, squeezing the detective's hand gently.

"Yes," Sherlock said, squeezing back as an affirmation. He looked out the window at the stars above them, the moon throwing beams of moonlight on the both of them.

"Yes, we do."


	5. Be With You

John pushed the med kit underneath the counter and was just putting on his coat when a pair of long, thin, pale hands slid over his eyes.

"Guess who, John."

John rolled his eyes from underneath the temporary blindfold. "Sherlock, d'you really think I wouldn't recognize your voice?"

The hands slid off and spun John around so that he was facing the grinning detective. "I was hoping you wouldn't."

John smiled and leaned forward, meeting Sherlock's soft, velvety lips with his own. The detective leaned in closer, deepening the kiss. His hands traveled down to John's sides, gripping the army doctor's hips and then sliding up to wrap tightly around him. John brought his hands up to cup the sides of Sherlock's face, kissing wildly and passionately.

Finally, John broke away, out of breath. "Oh, God, Sherlock, I swear…you'll be the undoing of me."

"I'll also be the undoing of your trousers, John," Sherlock said, grinning.

John rolled his eyes. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are very bad at making sex jokes."

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "I'm sorry, John. Did you say I'm bad at something?"

John stopped cold. "Sherlock, I didn't mean…"

He trailed off as he saw Sherlock grinning again. "You fucker," he growled, only half angry.

Sherlock smiled angelically. "Actually, John, isn't that usually _your_ job when we…"

John interrupted him. "Sherlock, stop before I hit you."

Sherlock grabbed John again and pulled him in for another kiss.

This one had a different tone. It was hungry, it was aggressive, and it was one that made John know how fierce Sherlock's love was for him. Sherlock's slim, velvet tongue darted in and out of his mouth, gently licking his lover's lower lip before John pulled away and began to kiss Sherlock's neck, leaving a trail of small bruises from his ear down. Sherlock's neck arched beneath his mouth as John's hands slid down his back to grip his arse through those tight trousers the detective wore.

His mouth traveled back up, Sherlock panting. John grabbed the front of _that damn purple shirt_, pulling him in for a final, searing kiss.

"Oh, John," Sherlock said, gasping for breath. "Now I'll _have_ to wear the scarf until those love bites fade."

"Do you mind?" John asked, somewhat worried he had messed up.

"Not a bit," Sherlock said breathlessly.

"You, Sherlock Holmes, are a masochist, aren't you?" John said teasingly.

Sherlock's eyes glinted in the pale light from the surgery window. "When it comes to you, John, I'm everything."

They stood there for several minutes, just gazing into each other's eyes, not moving a muscle.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "We should probably go home."

"Yes."

"And we can-"

"Yes."

"John, I hadn't even said anything yet."

John then said seventeen simple words that Sherlock would never, ever forget.

"Well, whatever it is, I want to do it if it means I can be with you."


	6. This One Explained

John's eyes flew open to hear a quiet beeping sound coming from his alarm clock.

_Shit. It's almost nine._

He was late for work. Again.

John slid out of the nice, warm bed. Sherlock was already out and about…he had woken John up at three in the morning and yelled something about the killer being allergic to weasels. John had told him to wear his gloves and promptly fell back asleep.

He stumbled blindly towards the bathroom, turning on the shower and grabbing a towel out of the linen closet. He then headed back to the bedroom to get some clothes.

John, more awake now, wove his way through small experiments and stacks of books on their bedroom floor to the closet. He threw open the doors, expecting to find a few of his button-up shirts on their respective hangers.

Instead, he found a singed hanger, attached to which was a plastic bag with ashes in it and a note reading _IOU Five Shirts_.

_Damn it, Sherlock._

John sighed.

He sat there for a few minutes until he remembered his shower was running and, stripping off his t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, headed for the bathroom.

Throughout his whole shower John thought about what to do. How was he going to explain this to Sarah?

_Sarah, I can't come to work today because my mad boyfriend burned all my work shirts…_

_Oh, hell. _

_I guess I could wear my jumpers-no, they don't look professional enough._

Just then, John had a genius stroke of inspiration.

If he's going to steal my things…

John grinned evilly and turned off the shower knob, stepping out and wrapping a towel around himself to go look for Sherlock's favorite purple shirt.

* * *

Much Later

Sherlock stepped into the living room, holding his arm tightly to stop the blood flow that came from the long knife wound. He slammed the door shut behind him and winced as his arm flexed slightly from the pain.

He pulled off his coat carefully (quite a feat with a bleeding arm) and threw it over the back of his chair. Sherlock then headed for the bathroom, feeling slightly dizzy.

He yanked his arm out of his shirt, hissing as the fabric brushed the long cut. Sherlock carefully pulled a long length of gauze off the roll and, after thoroughly washing the cut, wrapped it haphazardly around it.

As soon as he secured the ends, he sagged back against the counter, feeling relieved. As he leaned there, his phone suddenly rang. Sherlock pulled it out of his pocket and took a quick glimpse at the caller ID.

Lestrade, Gregory

Sherlock flipped the phone open. "Lestrade," he said, wincing when his voice came out rather unsteadily.

"Sherlock, I need you to…" Greg trailed off as he heard Sherlock's voice. "You okay, mate?"

"Fine, fine," Sherlock said, hoping to dismiss any concerns the inspector had. "Is it a case?"

"Uh…yeah," Greg said, still not entirely convinced. "Can you come down?"

"I'll be there in five," Sherlock said, ignoring Greg's protests that he _hadn't even told Sherlock where the bloody hell it was _and hung up the phone.

He walked, a bit wobbly, over to his chair where he had flung his coat. Picking it up, he inspected the damage, swearing as he realized that there was a lot more than he had originally thought. He stared at the bloodstained edges of the long tear, silently cursing the mugger he had just encountered.

_Bugger. That's going to need sewing._

_What'll I wear for a coat?_

Sherlock had one coat, and one coat only. It was his absolute favorite, and he really didn't see the point of owning more than one. So, needless to say, when he went to hunt through his and John's closet, all he found were a few of his other button-ups and John's favorite oatmeal-coloured jumper.

An idea came into Sherlock's head that made him wince. However, it wasn't looking like there were many other options.

_A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do._

Sherlock reached out and grabbed one of the button-ups and the jumper, heading to the bathroom to change.

_I wonder where my purple shirt went?_

Quickly, before jumping in the shower to rinse the trails of blood off his body, he shot off a quick text to John and threw a towel onto the counter so that he wouldn't freeze when he got out.

_There's a new case. Meet me at the Yard. Bugger inconvenience. -SH_

* * *

"Young airline stewardess, age 21…didn't have any known enemies…one sister and her father…mother dead…not married…."

Greg sighed and finished flipping through the report, looking across the room at the body lying in the middle of the road. "We're definitely going to need Sherlock on this one," he muttered.

Anderson rolled his eyes from his place by the body. "Oh, joy; more one on one time with the freak," he said sarcastically.

"Try to contain yourself, Craig," Greg said. "Remember…it's like the old spider saying; it's just as afraid of you as you are of it. Think about it this way; Sherlock hates you just as much as you hate him."

Anderson went back to examining the fingernails of the dead girl. "Gee, thanks. That's really helpful," he said sarcastically.

They heard two cabs pull up a short time later, one person emerging from each.

Greg's jaw dropped as he saw who they were.

It wasn't so much the identity as the way the detective and his blogger were _dressed_.

Sherlock was wearing his typical shoes and trousers, with his blue scarf and mussed brown curls. However, over a dark blue collared shirt lay what looked suspiciously like John Watson's favorite (and rather ugly) oatmeal-coloured jumper.

John, too, was wearing what he normally wore from the waist down and the chin up. However, stretched precariously across his chest was Sherlock's favorite dark purple collared shirt, buttons looking as though they were ready to shoot off at any given moment.

The two suddenly became aware of the other's presence and turned towards each other.

The looks of shock on both their faces proved Greg's suspicion that neither knew exactly what was going on.

_Oh, I can't wait to hear this one explained. _


	7. A Curious Silence

_A/N; I don't even know._

_It's late, and I'm tired, and this is probably the weirdest one shot I have ever written. But I figured, what the hell? I'm running on pure chocolate right now, people XP_

_Major thanks to my dear, dear friend and Sherlock ADD buddy, who has kept me going in a time when I wasn't sure if I could keep going. Thank you and lots of love to you :)_

_Remember...every time you review, Mycroft gets a piece of cake!_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"John?"

"What is it, 'Lock?" John asked without looking up from his book.

"What's cosplaying?"

This time John did look up. He set his book down and turned to Sherlock, who was staring at his laptop with apparent fascination. "Cosplaying," Sherlock said again. "What is it, John?"

"Well…" John hesitated, trying to figure out how to explain this to Sherlock. "It's when people dress up as one of their favorite characters in a book or movie or show and enact scenes or take pictures of themselves."

"Oh."

John went back to his book.

"John?"

John sighed and put it back down. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"When they say 'Sherlock cosplay', do they mean…"

John sighed again. "Yes, Sherlock. That means they're pretending to be you."

"Oh."

John went back to his book again, praying that this would satisfy Sherlock.

Five peaceful minutes of silence went by before it was broken, yet again, by Sherlock's wondering voice.

"John?"

John threw his book down on the floor. "Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock, I'm trying to read!"

Silence.

"It's a girl."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock…girls do cosplay too."

"But…how can she be pretending to be me when she's…female?"

John shook his head and stood up, walking over to sit down by Sherlock on the couch. "Look. There's a lot of girls out there who really admire you, and so they pretend to be you as a way of…admiration. It's just pretend, Sherlock; they're only doing it for fun, okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Ok."

John walked back over to his chair and was just about to pick up his book when he heard Sherlock's voice again.

"John?"

John put his head in his hands. _Fuck._ "What, Sherlock."

"Can we cosplay sometime?"

John turned and raised an eyebrow. "Why the hell would you want to do that?"

"I don't know."

"Well, then, don't ask me to."

A curious silence filled 221b for the rest of that day.


	8. A Long Story

"But _why_, John? Why the _hell_ would you subject me to this degree of misery?"

John grabbed his wallet off the coffee table and walked over the door where Sherlock stood. "Sherlock, I've told you a hundred times; you're going to do the shopping with me so that, one day, if I'm ill or out of commission and we need milk _again_, you can go out and get it yourself." John said, exasperated. He opened the door and propelled Sherlock towards the stairs.

"But Jaaaaaaawn…"

"No buts, Sherlock," John said firmly, coming to the landing. "Think of it as an exercise in normality. Or, if it'll make you feel better, as an experiment."

Sherlock sighed but didn't say any more as they stepped out onto the pavement. John prayed that he stayed that way and hailed a cab.

A few minutes later, they arrived at the nearest Tesco.

"Now, Sherlock," John said, feeling that bringing Sherlock in without establishing ground rules would be like a bull in a china shop. "You can't-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "Test the tomatoes for mould, scare small children, complain to the managers or other employees, explode milk containers, or kill anyone," he said in a bored voice. "Anything else?"

John stopped for a moment, slightly shell-shocked. "Right. Um, don't…don't…"

"Be myself?" Sherlock suggested.

"Well, not exactly but…yeah, basically," John said. "That might help a bit."

Sherlock nodded tersely, and headed for the store. "Right. I'll do my best."

John, watching Sherlock approach the store as one would approach a battlefield, had a sudden ominous feeling of impending disaster.

_Am I making a huge mistake?_

* * *

"John, do they sell hydrochloric acid here?"

John rolled his eyes, pulling a package of flour off the shelf. "Sherlock, you are not buying acid, okay?"

"But I need it, John!"

"No, you don't."

"It's for an experiment!"

John just walked away, willing himself to remain calm.

* * *

A few minutes after that, Sherlock appeared at John's side again, this time holding what looked like squid eyes.

"No," John said immediately.

"Oh, come _on_, John!" Sherlock said loudly. He shook the jar of eyes in John's face. "They were in the foreign foods aisle. Pleeeeeease?" he whined, putting on his best puppy look.

John snatched the jar out of his hands and pushed it onto a nearby shelf. "No!" he yelled, causing several people around to turn and stare at the odd couple. "Sherlock, we are _not_ buying squid eyes!"

Now everyone was staring. Sherlock began to pout.

"Sherlock, just…go look at the science books and leave me alone, okay? I'll come get you when I'm done." John turned away down a different aisle.

Sherlock frowned.

_What did I do wrong?_

* * *

Sherlock turned away and began to walk the opposite way, towards the book section. John was mad at him again. All because he wanted to buy one _teeny_ little jar of acid.

_Some people are just too sensitive._

Sherlock walked past a bed display and a giant crate of plastic bouncy balls, looking for the science books.

_Wait a moment…_

Sherlock whipped back around and stared at the balls, a plan formulating in his head.

_So John's going to be like that, is he?_

He grinned maliciously.

_I know one way to get his attention._

* * *

_Should I get the store brand because it's cheaper, or the name brand because it's better and Sherlock won't eat any other?_

John sighed and grinned wryly to himself.

_Bit sad that my most important decision of the day is what kind of bread to get._

John picked up one of the loaves, and promptly dropped it again when he heard screams from the direction Sherlock had gone in.

_Oh, shit._

* * *

In retrospect, it probably wasn't the greatest idea for John to let Sherlock wander off by himself. He was bound to cause trouble, and trouble was bound to find him. Nevertheless, it was a decision John really, really regretted.

John shifted in the hard plastic chair, really wishing he had just done the shopping by himself and come home to a nice, warm flat, instead of ending up at the police station waiting for Lestrade.

"Damn it, Sherlock," John growled to his partner, who was sitting in another chair next to him. "You couldn't just stay out of trouble for one second, could you?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Well, it's hardly my fault, John. After all, you…"

"Oh, no, Sherlock Holmes, don't you _dare_ try and pin this on me, you little…"

"John, honestly you weren't helping when you…"

"And you just haaaad to go and do something big, didn't you, couldn't have been something small…"

A loud cough was heard as Greg, who had been standing in the doorway for a good minute and a half, broke up the argument.

John and Sherlock shut both their mouths with a snap like naughty children who had been reprimanded.

"Thanks," Greg said sarcastically.

He took a seat across from them and looked at both of them intensely. "Want to tell me why I've been called down here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, Lestrade, I thought you were brighter than _that_."

Greg gave him his best 'don't-fuck-with-me' look. "What the buggering hell is this? All I heard was something about the local Tesco, a crate of balls, and Sherlock Holmes.

John and Sherlock looked at each other, unsure of what to say.

"Well? I'm waiting," Greg said impatiently.

John sighed and looked over at his lover. For the first time that day, he actually smiled.

"It's a long story."


	9. Loo On Fire

"Remind me again why the bloody hell you thought it would be a good idea to invite Mycroft and Lestrade over for dinner."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, they're practically family. In your case, one of them _is_ family. It's almost Christmas…can't you just act nice for one night? Please?"

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh and flopped down onto the sofa, wrapping his dressing gown tightly around himself. "But why? Being nice serves no practical purpose."

"It serves an ethical one," John said, trying desperately to convince him. "Besides, what if one day you need help from him?"

Sherlock snorted and picked up the newspaper. "I'll never need help from Mycroft."

"And what about Lestrade? He gives you all those cold cases when you're bored." John pointed out. He sat down on the arm of the sofa and rubbed his fingers through Sherlock's silky dark curls. "C'mon, 'Lock. It's just one evening. I promise that if you can through this one evening I'll skip work the next day and I'll buy you that jar of squid eyeballs you wanted. Okay?"

Sherlock paused and thought about it for a few moments, then sighed and nodded. "Fine. But if I become irrevocably, irreparably bored, may I escape to the bedroom?"

"No," John said tersely. "The last time you asked that was when Molly and her boyfriend came over. Remember that?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No."

"Sherlock, you went to the bedroom as soon as they entered the door."

A pause.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. And no, you can't. You'll stick it out, or no squid eyeballs."

Sherlock gave another dramatic sigh. "Okay. I'll try and muddle through."

* * *

**_Later_**

"John!"

"Hey, Greg!" John greeted Lestrade and his boyfriend as they arrived at the door. "How're you two?"

"Splendid, for the moment," Mycroft replied. He brushed past John, walked into their living room, and promptly sat down in Sherlock's chair.

Greg gave him an apologetic look and followed the government inside.

John gestured to the couch and offered Greg a drink. Greg accepted gladly. "I'll need it," he muttered, making John smile.

"I think we both will," he whispered.

Sherlock chose that exact moment to enter the living room, wearing his typical buttoned dress shirt and a supreme look of disdain. "Mycroft, get your fat arse out of my chair."

"Sherlock!" John yelled as Mycroft stood up, curling his lip at his baby brother.

Sherlock gave John a blank look. "What?"

John gave him the slightest shake of his head.

Sherlock looked at him, confused. "Bit not good?"

John nodded quickly.

"Oh." Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "I…apologize for my behavior." He turned towards the hallway. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to visit the loo."

And with that Sherlock was gone.

An awkward silence filled the room.

After a few minutes, John stood up, clapping his hands together.

"Well! Who wants chicken?"

* * *

**_Much Later_**

"…and I said, lady, look, if you're going to stop here, you need to pull to the side. And you know what she said? She told me to fuck off!"

John laughed, wheezing. "What a bitch. Jesus. The people you meet as an officer, Greg."

"No kidding!" Greg said, chuckling. "Some of them are downright queer!"

"Isn't that rather like the pot calling the kettle black?" Mycroft said, smirking. He was sitting at Sherlock's side of the desk, going through all Sherlock's unsolved cold cases from Lestrade; something which John knew would have irritated the hell out of the detective. However, no one had seen him since the incident earlier. John felt that should have worried him more than it did, but knowing Sherlock he had just found an experiment to get involved in.

"Shut it, you," Greg said, slurring his words ever so slightly, wine glass tipping in his hands.

John leaned over and grabbed the bottle, filling Greg's glass up again. "Have a bit more wine. From the sound of things, you could use it with that shite job."

"I'm not carrying you home," Mycroft sang from the opposite side of the room.

"Aren't you sympathetic?" Greg said. They sat in a more comfortable silence for a few minutes.

Until Greg started sniffing the air.

John raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think you were that pissed yet, mate."

"I'm not," Greg said, frowning. He continued to sniff the air.

"Uh…then what the bloody hell are you doing?"

Greg turned to him.

"Does it smell like smoke in here to you?"

_Oh, shit._

* * *

**_Much, Much Later_**

"Yes, thank you, thank you, yes, we'll be more careful in the future, _yes,_ thank you…"

John said thank you to each firefighter as they left 221b.

Greg came to the door, accompanied by Mycroft. His tie was burned at the end and the edges of his hair were singed, as were Mycroft's, but he was relatively unharmed. "Maybe dinner another time, huh, John?" Greg suggested, giving him a crooked grin.

John ran a hand ruefully through his hair. "_Jesus_. I am so, so sorry…"

"It's okay, John," Greg said, shrugging. "We all know how he is sometimes. The damn pyromaniac."

John laughed. "Have a good night, Greg, Mycroft. Really sorry."

"It's perfectly fine, Dr. Watson. My brother is…difficult at the best of times. I wish you all the luck in the world for dealing with this particular incident."

"Uh…thanks." John said, a bit blown away by the sympathy.

"Don't forget that I did used to live with him for several years of my life," Mycroft said, eyes dancing both dangerously and merrily.

"Right," John said hesitantly, more than a bit unnerved. "Well…goodbye then." He quickly shut the door, hoping that it didn't come across as too rude, and went upstairs to speak with Sherlock.

The two of them needed to have a good, long talk about what was appropriate during social situations.

And lighting the loo on fire was _not_ one of them.


	10. Still In Trouble

A/N; I apologize majorly for not updating this yesterday. I had the flu rather badly, and it's a bit hard to type when you're throwing up every five minutes.

Hope you enjoy! This is dedicated to my dear, dear Sherlock ADD buddy...I hope your headache gets better and that the Sherlock-strength aspirin helps ;)

Ta,

Anonymoustache

* * *

"Sherlock, do you want some tea?"

Sherlock shuffled out of the bedroom, eyes and nose streaming. "That would be nice, John. Thank you."

John pulled the tea out of the cupboard. "You really must be sick…you never say thank you when I offer you tea."

"Sorry," Sherlock moaned, collapsing onto the couch.

John pulled out two mugs. "Nor do you apologize." He set the tea to steep in the hot water and walked over to where his lover lay. "I'm sorry you're sick, 'Lock."

Sherlock only sniffled in response. John sat down next to him and pulled his head onto his lap, rubbing his silky dark curls in a comforting gesture.

A few minutes later when Sherlock was dozing off, John went back to the kitchen and grabbed the tea, bringing it out into the living room. He set Sherlock's mug down on the coffee table next to the couch and gently shook the detective. "C'mon, Sherlock…wake up and drink your tea."

Sherlock's eyes slowly fluttered open. John picked up the mug and pushed it into his hands. "Drink up, love."

Sherlock took slow sips. "Thank you, John." Sherlock said hoarsely.

John smiled down at him fondly, ruffling a hand through his hair, and went to sit in his chair, picking up his own cup and drinking.

_Mmm…that's good. You do make an excellent cup of tea, John Watson._

* * *

_Next Morning_

John yawned and scratched at his chest, stretching out luxuriously in his old bed. He loved sleeping with Sherlock, but the consulting detective was barely over his cold and still contagious. John wasn't too keen on getting a cold himself, so he had thought a bit of space might be a good idea.

He slowly slid out of the warm covers and stood up, swaying slightly. John ran a hand through his hair and…

_What the fuck?_

John ran down the stairs to the bathroom, taking them two at a time. He swung around the corner and looked in the mirror.

Perched on top of John's head, nestled in his thin hair, were, unbelievably, a pair of furry golden ears.

I must be dreaming.

"Sherlock!" he yelled.

He jogged over to Sherlock's room and knocked loudly on the door. "Sherlock?"

The door creaked open and John was faced with the same old Sherlock…except for the furry black ears perched on top of the consulting detective's head.

They stared at each other for several minutes. Finally, John spoke. "Sherlock, what the fuck is going on?"

Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders. "John, I need you to think. I know that's hard for you…"

"Hey!" John said indignantly.

"Sorry," Sherlock said carelessly. "But_ think_, John…which tea did you use from the cupboard?"

John stopped. "Sherlock, I swear to god, if you've poisoned the tea _again_…"

"John!" Sherlock said, frustrated. "One of the teas was an experiment! It had a note on it that said _do not use_!"

John's eyes went wide.

They both ran to the kitchen.

John threw open the cupboard and pulled out the tea he had used. Sure enough, on the side was a note, scribbled in Sherlock's barely-legible cursive.

_"Experiment; Do Not Use"_

"Shit," John muttered. He threw the container back in the cupboard. "Now what do we do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "They'll disappear in a few hours. Maybe."

"Maybe?" John said incredulously. "Sherlock, I have to go to work tomorrow. They better be gone by then, or you're doing the shopping for a _month_."

Sherlock nodded quickly. "They'll be gone, John."

"Good." John said. He turned and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, putting his head in his hands. "_Jesus_."

Silence filled the kitchen.

"John?"

"What, Sherlock."

A pause.

"I think you look rather cute with animal ears."

Another pause.

"Thanks, 'Lock."

Silence.

"You're still in trouble, though."


	11. Where Sherlock Got It From

"John? John, dear, the mail's here!"

John opened the door to see Mrs. Hudson holding a few envelopes. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. You're an angel."

She blushed. "Oh, John. You're too kind."

He gave her a winning grin and gently shut the door.

John shuffled back over to his chair and sat down, flipping through the mail.

Bill, bill, paycheck from work, bill, advertisement…

A letter for Sherlock?

John raised his eyebrow. Sherlock never got mail. Anyone who knew him well would know that he preferred to text. Once the detective had received a handwritten letter from Mycroft and thrown it into the fire without reading it because he 'detested correspondence in such a Stone Age form'.

He stood up with a groan and headed for the bedroom, knocking on the door. "'Lock? You awake?"

"John, I've been awake since three A.M., as you are well aware. I am merely thinking."

John twisted the doorknob, entering the bedroom. "You got mail, my friend."

"Mail?" Sherlock sat up. "From whom?"

John looked down at the envelope. "Dunno. There's no return address."

Sherlock stood quickly and grabbed the letter out of John's hands. He ripped it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper with dainty cursive writing on it. His eyes skimmed the words and, after a moment, he cursed, crumpled it into a tiny ball, and threw it across the room.

John raised an eyebrow. "What was that about?"

"My mother," Sherlock said bitterly. "She wants to meet you. Stupid Mycroft must have told her about us." He cursed again.

John stared at him, confused. "So? I don't mind."

Sherlock turned to him, eyes wide. "What?"

"I don't mind." John said. "I'd love to meet your mum, 'Lock."

"But…why?" Sherlock said.

"Because…" John said. "It's just…that's what you do when you love someone."

Sherlock still stared at him, looking confused. "Really?"

"Sherlock, haven't you ever had…anyone? Before me, I mean?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few. During uni. They had no interest in meeting my family."

"Well, I do," John said firmly. "Anytime, Sherlock. Just tell me when."

Sherlock sat completely still for a minute.

"How about in an hour?"

* * *

_One Hour Later_

"So where are we meeting her?"

Sherlock pulled at the neck of his suit jacket. "At the park. Mother did always like to look at the trees at this time of year."

"Isn't it a bit cold to be meeting outside?"

Sherlock gave John a look. "Mother kind of does whatever she wants."

"Sounds like you," John said teasingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The cab pulled up at the edge of the grove of trees. "Here y'are, guv."

John smiled. "Thanks." He gave the man a bit of money and slammed the door behind them.

Sherlock stopped and pointed to a picnic bench nearby, on which sat a tall, silvery-haired woman wearing a lilac-coloured coat, a small clutch purse sitting on the table beside her.

"That's her." Sherlock said nervously.

John nodded. He wasn't sure why Sherlock was so scared, but he wasn't going to bring it up now. He gently took his lover's hand in his own, linking their fingers together. "Ready?"

Sherlock gulped and nodded. "Ready."

They walked over. The woman heard them and turned around, a look of recognition crossing her face when she saw the two of them.

"Hello, Mother." Sherlock said as they sat down at the bench across from her.

"Sherlock. How good to see you," said the elderly woman.

"Mother, this is…"

"John. John Watson." John said firmly, leaning over and shaking her hand. "I've heard a lot about you, Mrs. Holmes. It's so good to finally meet you."

Sherlock gave him an odd look, but went along with it. "Ah, yes." He cleared his throat. "Mother, this is my…partner, John."

"I know, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes said impatiently. "Don't state the obvious."

Sherlock shut his mouth with a snap.

John grinned.

Now he knew where Sherlock got it from.


	12. As Much As I Love You

_A/N; Angst, hurt/comfort, and a lovely bit of make-out-porn. This was written while listening to Fix by James Blackshaw. The feels are immense :')_

_Thank you to everyone who has been leaving reviews. I apologize for not replying yet; I've had some minor complications (flu {the kind that makes you wonder if it's possible to throw up your internal organs}, laryngitis, and a lack of internet) but I promise to do my best to respond to all the reviews I've gotten in the near future. Don't think that you aren't appreciated; I love you all J_

_As always, dedicated to my dear Sherlock ADD buddy. When someone asks what you're reading, gay Johnlock porn is always the best answer XP_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

John flew into the flat, slamming the door behind him. He threw his bag down on the floor and yanked off his coat, carelessly tossing it with abandon onto the back of his chair.

"Sherlock?" he yelled, the panic evident in his voice. "Sherlock, where are you?"

"I'm not deaf, John, no need to shout," said a quiet voice from the direction of the bedroom.

John ran over to the bedroom and threw the door open. Sherlock was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He looked to be no worse for the wear. A few spots of blood were on his shirt, but he didn't appear to be injured.

"Oh, thank god," John said, sagging against the doorframe, relief evident in his voice.

Sherlock looked over and saw the look on John's face. "What?" he asked, an oblivious look crossing his face.

John looked at him incredulously. "Are you fucking serious?" he snapped. "You don't know why I was so worried?"

Sherlock went back to staring at the ceiling. "Haven't the faintest."

John was suddenly right next to the bed, grabbing Sherlock by the front of his bloodstained purple shirt and dragging him up until he was face to face with John. "Lestrade called me at the clinic to say that you might or might not have been stabbed by a drugged-up mugger on his latest case!" he said, voice full of panic. "He said you disappeared right after without being checked and he didn't know what had happened." His voice broke, vision blurring. "I didn't know where you were, if you were hurt…I wasn't even sure if you were _alive_, Sherlock."

He shook the shell-shocked detective by the front of his shirt, tears dripping onto Sherlock's pale face. "Do you know how scared I was? I thought I was never going to see you again…I thought…I thought I was going to come home and find you lying here _dead_…"

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock said hoarsely. "I…"

He broke off as John's lips met his own in a searing kiss, hands still entwined in the front of his shirt.

After a few minutes, John broke away, gasping for breath. "God…you beautiful, _beautiful_ idiot. What am I going to do with you?"

Sherlock's pupils were blown wide. For once, the consulting detective was speechless.

John pushed him down onto the bed, lying next to him, arm wrapped around his lover. His lips met Sherlock's once again, in another bruising, passionate kiss. John's tongue pushed into Sherlock's mouth, tracing the inside of his velvety upper lip.

John's hands traveled down, pulling Sherlock's shirt up and out of his trousers. He wiggled his fingers up the back of the shirt, rubbing his warm hands against the smooth alabaster skin of Sherlock's back, tracing his spine with the tips of his fingers.

This time it was Sherlock who broke away, gasping for breath. "God, John…I'm sorry…I know…I should have called, should have told you…love you so much…"

John's mouth traveled down, sucking and biting on Sherlock's neck, leaving small possessive bruises in its wake, marking the man he loved. "I know, 'Lock. I know. I love you too. That's why I was so angry…I couldn't bear to lose you."

Sherlock sighed, a satisfied little noise, and nodded, laying his head against John's chest and wrapping his long arms around the doctor. John pushed his chin on top of Sherlock's silky dark curls, rubbing slow circles on his shoulder blades.

They stayed like that for hours, just lying there, together. The sky outside began to darken with the coming of nighttime.

"We should go to bed," John whispered, lips brushing against the thick curls.

"We're already there," Sherlock said, voice muffled by John's shirt pressed against his face.

John pulled away slightly and sat up, slipping his hands out of the back of Sherlock's. He gently put his hands on the consulting detective's arms, guiding him up to face the doctor. He took a moment to admire the small, reddish-brown marks traveling up and down the length of Sherlock's neck that marked him as John's love. John smiled and began to slowly unbutton the front of Sherlock's purple shirt, sliding it from the slim figure and dropping it carefully to the ground. John then undid his own shirt, pushing it off the side of the bed to join Sherlock's on the floor.

John pushed the detective back down, joining him on the soft covers of their bed. He wrapped Sherlock in his warm, comforting embrace.

It was completely dark outside now, stars shining brightly in the deep indigo sky. Moonlight washed through the window, silvery beams lighting their faces, making Sherlock's skin gleam in an ethereal way.

John smiled fondly at the beauty of his lover, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock's flushed lips. Sherlock responded, back arching as his tongue slipped into John's mouth, hands caressing John's sides and stomach. John's hands traveled up to Sherlock's chest, rubbing over his shoulders and down by his nipples, hands skimming over the detective's concave stomach. His fingers skimmed down to Sherlock's hips, tracing the sharp hip bones protruding there.

He gently lowered himself down onto Sherlock, chest touching the detective's own. He could feel both their hearts beating in unison, lips meeting again in a slow, undying kiss.

"God…I love you so much, Sherlock…" John whispered, forming the words against Sherlock's lips. "Do you even know how much?"

Sherlock leaned up and pulled John in for one last searing, beautiful, perfect kiss, full of all the words he could never and would ever say, filled with all the passion and love of a lifetime.

"As much as I love you."


	13. Any Other Way

_A/N; Once again, my internet data for the month has run out early. I may or may not be able to post the rest of this week's until Sunday. I do promise to do my very best to get them all out on the days that they're supposed to be posted, but…just a warning. If I don't get them posted, you'll know why. :)_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"It is _hot_."

Sherlock switched off the telly with a vicious click. "What an idiot. That's so obvious it's practically on Anderson-level." He threw the remote across the room, hitting the wall with a dull thud.

John let out a whoof of breath, tugging at his shirt collar. "He's right, though. It's practically a desert out there."

"It's a desert in here, too," Sherlock grumbled, stretching out in his chair. He was wearing his typical trousers and a white shirt, dampened with beads of sweat that dripped from his pale porcelain skin.

"Take off those stupid formals, you daft git," John said fondly, ruffling Sherlock's hair as he walked into the kitchen.

"Why, Doctor Watson, I do believe you just asked me to strip," Sherlock replied teasingly, striking a seductive pose in his chair.

"Dream on, 'Lock." John said cheekily. He opened the freezer and pulled out a box, holding it up for Sherlock to see. "Seeing as it's a bit hot for tea, how about an ice cream?"

"Only if I get to lick it off-"

"Sherlock!"

"I was going to say the stick, John. What kind of person do you take me for?"

John rolled his eyes, pulling two ice creams out of the box and putting it back in the freezer. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe a slightly inappropriate sociopath?"

"Oh, you love it and you know it, John," Sherlock said, winking at the doctor and taking the small package he handed him.

"I do?" John asked, smirking. He sat down in the chair opposite the detective and began to unwrap his own ice cream. "Then why don't I tell myself that?"

"Maybe you're in denial," Sherlock said, pulling his out of the package by the stick. He threw the paper to the side carelessly.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up. "What?"

John sighed, exasperated. "There's a bin right behind you! You couldn't have turned around and thrown the wrapper in there, could you?"

"No," Sherlock said bluntly.

John rolled his eyes and bit into his ice cream, letting the flavor melt on his tongue. "Of course not. What was I thinking?"

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock said airily. He brought his ice cream to his mouth, then stopped and looked over at John until the doctor looked at him. When his eyes met John's, he licked a long stripe up the underside of the ice cream with his luscious pink tongue.

John's pupils went wide, ice cream melting onto his hand.

Sherlock licked it again and then, without further warning, shoved it into his mouth and began to suck it hard.

Oh, God, Sherlock.

You really know what turns me on, don't you?

Finally, after a few minutes, the ice cream was gone and Sherlock was licking those plump lips for any remaining traces of the sticky flavor.

"So, John," Sherlock said casually, leaning back in his chair.

"What was that you said about 'dreaming on'?"

The rest of their afternoon was just as hot as the morning, and the deducing duo wouldn't have had it any other way.


	14. I Have Breasts

"John! John!"

John ran down the stairs, heading towards Sherlock's panicked voice as though his life depended on it.

He tumbled into the living room, out of the breath. Sherlock was lying on the couch, looking much calmer than his voice had led John to believer. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" he asked, gasping for breath.

"What? Oh. Someone's knocking on the door."

John stared at him incredulously. "You brought me all the way down here to answer the door?"

Sherlock turned his head towards John. "Problem?"

John just snorted and, growling and mumbling to himself, walked over and yanked open the door.

Standing outside it was a bright-faced young man, holding a small, thin package and grinning obnoxiously.

"Parcel for you, sir!" he said, holding up the box upon seeing John.

"Thanks," John grumbled. He grabbed the paper from the boy and signed it, taking the package and heading back into the flat.

"Enjoy, sir," said the boy as the door shut.

Once the door was firmly shut, he walked down the stairs and out into the street, where he hailed a cab. Once inside, he pulled out his phone and dialed a restricted number.

"Plan X has been activated, sir," he said firmly as the cab pulled away from the sidewalk.

"_Good, good_," said a crackly voice through the earpiece.

"_I've waited for this day for many months now. The events that follow shall be quite…entertaining."_

"I don't doubt it, sir," said the boy with a chuckle.

"_You may go back to your business, boy. Thank you."_

"Of course, sir," said the boy smoothly. He hung up the phone and leaned back in the cab.

He didn't know who it was he had just delivered that package to or why.

_All I know is that they're really fucked now._

* * *

John shut the door with a half-hearted slam and looked down at the package. A small piece of paper had been taped to the top with a note written on it in messy shorthand.

"A little gift of appreciation for your help with my latest case-MH"

"What is it?" Sherlock's voice drifted over from the couch.

"Parcel from your brother," John replied, ripping off the tape and paper.

"Throw it in the fire," Sherlock said lazily, going back to his book.

John just rolled his eyes. He finally got all the wrappings off and pulled out a well-disguised bottle of fine wine.

"He sent us a bottle of wine, Sherlock. Now wasn't that nice of him?"

"Pour it down the sink, John."

"Sherlock."

"It's probably poison…"

"Sherlock."

"It'll probably kill us if we drink it…"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up at John's yell. "What?" he asked obliviously.

"Don't be so childish," John said pettily. He went to get a bottle opener and some glasses. "I'm sure it's fine. Your brother would never intentionally poison us."

"The key word is 'intentionally', isn't it?" Sherlock muttered.

"Hush." John said teasingly. He poured two glasses of the clear red liquid and put the remainder of the bottle in the refrigerator. Walking into the living room, he handed one to Sherlock and sat down on the couch, pulling Sherlock's head into his lap. He sipped the wine, rubbing a hand absentmindedly through the detective's dark silky curls.

"Mmm, that's good wine," John said, looking down at the glass in his hands.

That was the last thing he remembered.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes drifted open. The world around him slowly drifted into focus. He was lying on the floor, arms and legs splayed. He began to move and-

_What the bloody fuck?_

Sherlock's hands flew up to his chest. His eyes flew wide open. He jumped up and sprinted towards the bathroom, head pounding.

In the mirror was a tall woman with pale skin and long, dark, curly hair.

Sherlock reached out and touched the looking glass. The woman moved too, elegant hand coming up to touch Sherlock's.

_Bloody hell._

At that moment Sherlock heard a loud yelp and pounding feet. A few moments later a long-blonde-haired John joined him in the bathroom.

Sherlock had to laugh. There wasn't much else he could do.

John stared at his reflection, then turned and looked at Sherlock, horror in his eyes. "Please tell me this is a dream."

"I really, really wish I could, John," Sherlock said. He gasped and felt his throat. "Bloody fuck…I'm a soprano."

"And I'm a bloody alto, but that's not important," John said, his voice laced with irritation. "What's important is how the buggering hell we got like this!"

Sherlock stopped for a moment, remembering a certain event from the previous evening.

"Mycroft," he said, voice laced with a dark menace.

"Mycroft?" John said, confused.

"John, the wine! It was the wine!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I told you not to drink it!"

"But…why would Mycroft want to turn us into…_girls_?" John asked.

"A sick fetish, possibly?"

John gave him a look.

Sherlock coughed. "Perhaps not. Then I would suggest that it might have to do with that prank we played on Lestrade last week."

"Ah," John said, nodding. He stopped and thought, then shook his head. "Nope. Not following."

Sherlock growled, frustrated. "Isn't it obvious?"

John looked at him blankly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing deeply. "Look. We played a prank on Lestrade, which, admittedly, he probably wasn't too thrilled about…"

"Of course not, you daft git, you put eels in his inbox."

Sherlock waved a hand. "It's merely a matter of opinion. Anyways, he must have complained to his little pet boyfriend who is my brother, which is why Mycroft sent us this tainted wine."

"Ooookay." John said. "So…"

"So we can wait for it to stop…or we can call Mycroft and yell insulting phrases at him." Sherlock seemed infinitely pleased with the latter option.

John sighed. "Okay," he said.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and began to dial a number.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Really?"

"No. I'm calling Sarah to tell her I won't be at work today."

Sherlock's smile slid off his face. "Oh."

The phone rang and Sarah picked up.

_"Hello?"_

"Sarah, it's John. Listen, I'm…"

_"John, you okay? Your voice sounds…"_

"No, no, I'm fine, it's just….just a cold. So…"

_"Oh. Right. Home it is."_

A pause.

"I'm really sorry, Sarah. I just…"

_"No, no, it's fine, John! God, don't apologize for being sick. You get better, rest up, and let me know if you need anything, okay?"_

"Thanks, Sarah."

_"Talk to you later, John."_

The phone clicked and John hung up.

They stood there, in front of the mirror, for a few seconds, silence filling the room.

"John."

"What, Sherlock?"

A pause.

"I have breasts."

And the phrase of the century was uttered, not for the first time and certainly not for the last.

"No shit, Sherlock."


	15. For Years To Come

A/N; Apologies for the gap day. However, now I can end at the end of the month, as opposed to a few days before. And I can be in sync with my dear, dear friend, whom I am doing this challenge with :)

I'm just going to go ahead and throw out a gigantic blanket "THANK YOU" to each and every single person who left me reviews. Quite honestly the amount of response I've received is _astounding_. In fact, if I answered every review left to me by you lovely people, I'd be 'up all night' *giggles at pun about other fic even though it isn't even that funny* So, basically, thank you so, so much and know that, even if I haven't PM'd you to thank you, I deeply appreciate every comment from the very bottom of my heart.

Reviews are what cake is to Mycroft. Hell, reviews are what cake is to _me_. *winks creepily*. So…review :D

Ta,

Anonymoustache

* * *

"A casual day? What the _bloody hell_ is a casual day?"

Lestrade's voice crackled over the other line. "It's a day where all the Yard employees wear casual clothes. It's supposed to encourage nonviolence."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "How does that encourage nonviolence?"

Lestrade paused, then sighed through the phone line. "I don't know, Sherlock. The point is, if you want to work the case today, you've gotta wear your casuals. Okay?"

"But I…"

"See you later."

The inspector hung up with a click.

* * *

Sherlock sulked his way out of his room. John was sitting on the couch, reading a book with a tea cup in his hand. When Sherlock came in the living room, he looked up and set his book down, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea.

"Who was that then?"

Sherlock flopped dramatically down into his chair and gave a dramatic sigh. "Lestrade."

"New case?" John asked, going back to his book.

The detective grunted. "Yes."

John looked up over his reading glasses. "What's wrong? You're usually more excited than this when it's a new case."

"It's 'casual day' at Scotland Yard." Sherlock said, speaking the two words in a disgusted voice.

John shrugged. "So?"

"_So_ I can't go for the case unless I wear, according to Lestrade, 'my casuals'," he said, acid in his voice.

"What's wrong with that?" John asked.

"I don't own 'casuals', John. You know that," Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

John stood up, placing his book down on the table and his reading glasses beside it. "C'mon. You have to have something casual. If not, well…we'll make it work, okay?"

"Why are you so eager for me to go, anyways?" Sherlock asked, draping his long body over the arm of the chair.

"Sherlock. You've been inside this flat, moaning and complaining, for. Five. Days. Straight." John said. "I don't think I can take another five days of your boredom."

Sherlock thought for a moment, then nodded. "I do see your point." He leapt up from the chair, nimbly as a cat, and breezed past John into their bedroom.

The two ended up in front of Sherlock's wardrobe, peering into the moth-ball depths that contained old experiment unseen for years and, unsurprisingly, clothes.

John let out a whoof. "Don't you ever _dust_ this thing?"

"Of course not. I have better things to do," Sherlock said, sounding bored. He began to shuffle through the clothes.

John stared. Sherlock had been right; all he really owned were slacks and fancy, expensive, label-brand shirts. He reached in and felt around for anything that might be considered even remotely casual. He was just about to give up and fetch Sherlock a pair of his own denim trousers when a piece of material in the back made him stop.

Were those…jeans?

He carefully pulled out the item. He and Sherlock both stared as a pair of tight skinny jeans with studs slid out of the layers of clothing.

They were silent for a few minutes. Finally, John spoke.

"Damn, Sherlock," John said, half-teasingly and half-astonished. "Why have I never seen these on you?"

"Probably because they're from way back in uni," said Sherlock, just as shocked. "I didn't even know I kept them."

John picked them up and fingered them, laying them out on the bed. "Well, that's the pants problem solved."

"The shirt one may be solved as well," Sherlock said. He shoved his arm back into the closet, back where the jeans had been hidden. His hand emerged a few minutes later with a white cotton v-neck tee shirt. He threw it over to the bed with the jeans, then dove back in, coming out a few moments later with a pair of old, scuffed, black-and-white converse. The shoes were worn to bits and had, unsurprisingly, chemical formulae written along the sides with a Sharpie.

"Didn't picture you as a converse kind of guy," John said, more surprised by the minute.

"You didn't know me in uni," Sherlock said as though that explained everything. He picked up the clothes and headed for the bathroom. "Make sure you wear casual, too, John," he yelled over his shoulder.

John heard the bathroom door shut with a click, then headed for the stairs, still shaking his head in disbelief.

* * *

Sherlock hopped out of the cab. He had forgone his 'bat cape' for John's black jacket, though he was still wearing his ever-present blue scarf. His dark curls were not combed perfectly as they usually were; instead, they were windblown and messy, giving his pale, high-set face a boyish look.

John was wearing his typical clothes; dark denim trousers and a pair of brown shoes with a red checked plaid shirt and thin jumper that Sherlock loved on him. He had his brown jacket over it, seeing as Sherlock had taken his favourite black one.

The detective breezed into Scotland Yard as he always did, though admittedly a bit less dramatically without his long, sweeping coat. They went straight to Lestrade's office, ignoring the strange looks and wolf whistles the detective got.

When Sherlock arrived, Lestrade was already there, Sally and Anderson standing with him. The inspector was wearing his typical day-off clothes; a thin brown tee shirt and a pair of jeans. Sally was dressed similarly, though, Sherlock noted with distaste, her tee shirt showed off far too much cleavage to be appropriate for work. Anderson, too, had a tee shirt and jeans; however, it was what was on his shirt that made Sherlock smirk.

"I Love Dinos? Really, Anderson?" Sherlock asked, barely containing his smug grin.

"Shut up, freak," Anderson said in his annoying voice. "Dinosaurs are awesome."

John looked over at Sherlock and could just see what he was going to say next in his sparking blue eyes. So, he decided to beat the detective to the punch.

"Dinosaurs are extinct," he piped up.

Both Anderson and Sherlock turned to him with astonished looks on their faces; Sherlock because John had just read his mind and Anderson because he was sad at this latest revelation.

Both of them spoke at once.

"John, what the hell?"

"Dinosaurs are extinct?"

They turned to each other, and again spoke exactly at the same moment.

"Even _you_ can't possibly be that stupid, Anderson."

"Why would he say that?"

"_Okay_, girls, just calm down," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "We do have a case to get on with."

Both of them shut up after that, though they continued to shoot each other glares for the rest of the day.

Lestrade led them down the hallway towards the room where they were keeping some of the evidence. John leaned over to his lover. "So Anderson likes dinosaurs…" he muttered.

Sherlock shot him a mischievous grin. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

John nodded, returning the detective's evil grin. "Exactly."

* * *

Late that night when Anderson returned home he would, unfortunately, find his entire collection of plastic dinosaurs had been stolen. The only thing left was a pile of small, fake bones and a small sticky note with a frowny face drawn by a certain ex-army doctor and the word 'extinct' written on it in a certain consulting detective's signature messy scrawl.

John and Sherlock would remember that prank as the best for years to come.


	16. Never A Dull Moment

John stumbled out of the bedroom, yawning and scratching his chest. He coughed and headed for the kitchen, eyes still adjusting to the morning light.

A few minutes later John heard a groan, several thumps, and quiet footsteps.

"Well, good morning, sleeping beauty," he said, stirring the tea gently with a spoon.

Sherlock smiled sleepily and rested against the doorframe. He was wearing a thin white tee shirt and tight black pants, curls mussed adorably atop his porcelain-skinned head. "G'morning, John," he whispered. He walked over, still not quite awake, and planted a soft kiss on John's head, wrapping his long arms around the army doctor.

"Ready for tea?" asked John.

Sherlock turned and headed for the living room, collapsing on the couch. "Always,"

John grinned and followed him, balancing two cups of tea and a plate of toast in his arms. He set them down on the coffee table and joined his love on the couch. Sherlock snuggled into John's side, resting his head against John's chest. The doctor smiled and put an arm around Sherlock, picking up his tea cup and quietly sipping the hot liquid. Sherlock did the same and, much to John's surprise, even munched a small piece of toast.

It was quiet mornings like these that John loved the most.

Of course, nothing around 221b Baker Street ever remained quiet for long.

* * *

At around ten o'clock Sherlock's phone rang shrilly throughout the flat, disturbing the peace and quiet John so desperately craved.

The detective grabbed for it, utterly bored (as he tended to get after their morning cuddle). He flipped it open and issued his typical greeting. "Sherlock Holmes."

_"Ah, Sherlock,"_ said a smug tone in his ear. _"How good to hear your voice."_

"Shut your can, Mycroft," Sherlock drawled, draping himself dramatically over the side of his chair.

_"How rude,"_ Mycroft mused thoughtfully. "_And especially considering I called with a quite intriguing case just for you."_

"I don't need your cases, Mycroft, nor do I want them," Sherlock said in his best bored voice. "Now will you please go stuff your face with cake or whatever it is you do in your free time?"

Sherlock could practically picture the elder Holmes's glare of disapproval, and found that he didn't care one bit.

_"Suit yourself, Sherlock_," Mycroft said. Sherlock could almost _hear_ him curling his lip. _"I won't forget this."_

"Oh, I know," Sherlock said carelessly. "I don't intend to let you."

The other line clicked as the British government hung up.

Sherlock threw his phone onto the table, among the mess of papers and miscellaneous other objects.

John looked up from his book. "Mycroft?" he guessed.

Sherlock's head lolled over in John's direction. "How did you _ever_ guess, John?"

"Luckily," John said, rolling his eyes. "What did he want?"

"Help on a case. Per usual." Sherlock grunted.

"What'd you tell him?"

"Fuck off,"

"Sherlock!"

"I was kidding, John. I politely refused."

John gave him a look and went back to his reading. "Knowing you, it was most likely the first one." He thought of something and put his book down. "Besides, aren't you ever worried that he'll exact payback or something?"

"Payback? Mycroft?" Sherlock scoffed. "To do that, he'd have to remove his plump arse from his cushy corporate chair."

John raised his eyebrows at the detective and silently went back to reading.

A few minutes later, John looked out the window and wondered exactly what was in that tea he had earlier.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

A pause.

"Why is there a giant plastic elephant outside our window?"

Ah, yes. Never a dull moment in 221B.


	17. Always Get Revenge

"Sherlock?"

John hung his coat on the hook and dropped his bag onto the floor, turning and heading towards the kitchen.

"Anything to eat? I'm starv-"

John broke off as he felt something small but weighty hit the back of his head.

Rubbing a hand through his short blond hair, he turned in a circle, looking for whatever had hit him. However, he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

Just as he had turned back to the kitchen, a glint of silver caught the corner of his eye. He turned and dropped down to the floor to pick up the object that had violated the back of his head.

It was a spoon. A small, silver teaspoon.

"What the hell…" John trailed off and looked around the room. Moments later another spoon came flying and hit him in the middle of the forehead.

A literal bombardment of spoons came shortly after, flying with tremendous speed through the air towards John. He dove behind his chair, taking refuge from the storm.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "It's a spoon bombing."

Finally, after a few minutes the spoons stopped coming, silence filling the flat. John stood up cautiously, scanning the room around him.

"Sherlock?"

The detective popped up from behind the couch, beaming. "Did it work?"

John shook his head. "Did…what? Sherlock, why the hell did you just throw a bunch of spoons at me?"

"Spooning, John!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Did you like it?"

"Uh…" John trailed off. "Sorry. What?"

"Spooning!" Sherlock said, voice excited. "Isn't that something that lovers are supposed to do?"

John stopped dead for a moment, then brought his hand up and rubbed his forehead, sighing. "Sherlock…"

"Well?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

So John sat the consulting detective down and gave him the talk.

About spooning.

"Spooning, Sherlock, is cuddling. NOT throwing spoons at your boyfriend."

A pause.

"Ah. I wondered about that."

John nodded. They sat in comfortable silence on the couch for a few moments.

A thought occurred to John. "Who gave you the spooning idea, anyways?"

"Donovan and Anderson were talking about it."

"And you _had_ to ask them, of all people, didn't you?

"John, how was I to know?"

Silence.

"John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

A pause.

"Do you want to get them back?"

"Oh, God, yes."

* * *

Sally snickered as the cab pulled up.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," she whispered to Anderson.

"I know!" Anderson practically squealed.

"Spooning," Sally chortled. "That was the best prank we ever pulled on the freak!"

They watched as the door opened and…

No one got out.

The cab just sat there, empty.

The two police officers looked at each other, confusion written on their faces.

It was about that time that Anderson felt something hit him hard in the back of his head.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, reaching a hand around and feeling through his hair. "What the bloody hell was that?"

Sally looked behind them and turned pale. "Craig…"

Anderson turned around and saw Sherlock and John standing behind them, arms crammed with a rather large assortment of spoons.

"Fancy a little 'spooning'?" John asked maliciously.

Anderson and Sally spent the rest of the day dodging metal utensils and deeply regretting ever saying 'that stupid spooning thing' to the detective.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would always get their revenge.


	18. It Was Love

_A/N; SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY_

_The end of December is concert season for me, so literally every day this last week I had a concert. I'm exhausted and I'm fairly sure that if I see one more piece of sheet music I will scream. However, it was really fun and amazingly memorable and I wouldn't take back one minute of it, even if I did miss out on a lot of sleep and writing time._

_That said, I really do apologize for the lack of updates. I promise to catch up before Christmas hits and I'll even put up a special Christmas oneshot as an apology and a present._

_And, in regards to this challenge; in case you haven't figured it out by now, I like my villains a bit on the psychotic side. Like Moriarty. Psycho makes for a good villain :}D_

_Also, does a near-death experience and some lovely comforting mean doing something together? Yes, yes it does._

_:D Thanks for being understanding. Also, as usual, lots of love to all my people (the two f's and r's). You make my life that much brighter._

_Dedicated to my dear Sherlock ADD buddy. I'll send you the concert audiofile ASAP, my dear friend. I also apologize for not finding all your apostrophes, but my life is busier than I can possibly handle XP_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"Come on, buddy. I only want to _talk_ to you."

John's breathing quickened as he heard the singsong voice of the delusional murder taunting him from where he was hiding.

"Bloody hell," he whispered.

Where was Sherlock?

_He was supposed to be here by now._

* * *

Sherlock ran down the long corridor, ducking as a sharp knife was thrown over his head.

_Shit._

He dove behind a box as gunfire erupted behind him.

_Where's John?_

Sherlock's gaze traveled around wildly, looking for something, _anything_, that could help him.

_What are my options here?_

**_Think,_**_ Sherlock._

His eyes locked on the door at the opposite side of the room. To get to it, he would have to cross directly in front of their line of fire.

Sherlock wished desperately that John was here. If John was here, he would tell Sherlock to stop and think. He would tell him to look carefully, to use his senses, to not rush into the line of fire as he tended to do. He would tell him to think before he leapt.

_I don't have time to think._

Sherlock rolled out from behind the box and darted towards the door, bullets tracing his path against the back wall.

* * *

John heard the man moving around in the middle of the room, shifting boxes and tables, looking for the army doctor.

He really, really hoped he didn't realize there was a closet directly behind him.

He also hoped that Sherlock got here soon, because if the man found him…

_Well, let's just say that things could get very bad very quickly._

* * *

Sherlock slammed the door behind him and panted, out of breath. He could still hear the echoes of the gunfire as they bounced off the metal behind him.

He saw another door at the end of the short carpeted hallway he was currently standing in.

Behind that door lay a small room full of old boxes and tables, used for storage. Sherlock knew; he had been here before.

In that room was John Watson, Sherlock's partner in crime (figuratively speaking) and the love of his life.

That alone made Sherlock breathe a sigh of relief.

_I know where he is. That's a start._

But also in that room was the homicidal murderer Sherlock had been chasing for a week and two days now.

And that scared Sherlock more than anything.

* * *

"Yoohoo! It's okay, my friend. I don't want to kill you or anything." The voice paused. "Just wanna have a bit of fun before it's time to go."

John shivered in his thin checkered shirt. The killer's voice alone sent chills up and down his spine.

"I don't think you want to, actually,"

John's head flew up as he recognized Sherlock's voice.

He pushed open the closet door a bit, ever so gently, and was awarded a clear view of the killer, who was staring open-mouthed at the detective. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, dark gray shirt torn near the neck. He looked winded, but otherwise unharmed.

"He's not very much fun to play with," Sherlock said, putting on a fake pout. "Never had much imagination, that man."

John rolled his eyes. Leave it to Sherlock to be a drama queen in the face of a mass murderer.

The killer cocked his head in an innocent gesture turned disturbing. "But what about you, Sherlock Holmes?" He stepped forward and began to circle around Sherlock, gently brushing his fingertips against the detective's neck. "Are you fun to play with?"

John saw Sherlock's hands clench into fists, a carefully controlled look on his face.

He leaned in and put his lips next to Sherlock's ear. "Do you have imagination?"

Sherlock stepped away. "Enough," he said bluntly. He spun and faced the man, his deducing look appearing on his face. "Why did you kill her, Jameson?"

The man (Jameson, John reminded himself) shrugged. "Oh, you know. Bit of excitement."

Sherlock just stood, waiting.

"She killed him, Holmes," said Jameson, his voice lowering, all the psychotic madness gone from it suddenly. "My best friend, the only man in the world I could ever trust, and she _killed _him."

"Killed who, Jameson?" Sherlock asked urgently. "If you can give us a name and evidence, some of your charges could possibly be dropped." He leaned in close, voice deliberately lowered. "Just give me a _name_."

Jameson beckoned for him to come in closer. He leaned in and began to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "He was…"

John pushed out a bit from his position in the closet, straining to look.

Just as the two came into John's view almost perfectly, Jameson slid a knife out from his inner coat pocket and pushed it slowly into Sherlock's side.

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he staggered backwards as a slow grin appeared on the killer's face.

"You're not as bright as they led me to believe, Holmes," Jameson whispered. He walked around Sherlock and put a hand on the door handle. He turned back at the last minute.

"Too bad you couldn't stop me." The murderer shrugged. "Just another tarnish on your not-so-spotless soul, I suppose."

And with that Jameson was gone. John could still hear his footsteps echoing in the hall as he dove out of the closet and ran for Sherlock.

The detective had collapsed to his knees, shaking. His hands traveled to his side and pulled out the bloodstained knife. It clattered to the floor with a stunning finality.

It was a sound John would never forget.

* * *

_One Month Later_

John knocked carefully on the bedroom door.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

No sound came from within.

John pushed open the door and saw Sherlock lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His shirt was off, showing the clean row of stitches that wound around his right side in a perfect semicircle.

"Sherlock?" John said, worried.

"Fine."

John walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took Sherlock's hand in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"I'm here."

John stood up and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

No complicated discussions, no emotional admissions. Just a tender reassurance and a quiet reminder of what there was to fall back on when things got hard.

That was the way it was with John and Sherlock.

It was quiet.

It was soft.

It was gentle.

It was love.


	19. Agreed

_A/N; I would like to thank my piano/violin/choir teacher, who inspired this because the other night he wore a tuxedo to our concert. His clothing was indirectly helpful for this challenge, because quite honestly (with my lack-of-boyfriend-or-male-influence) I had no idea what the hell a tuxedo looked like. So thank you to him, and I really hope he never actually reads this, because I'm quite sure he'd be horrified to find out I'm writing gay Johnlock romance stories. And I'd be horrified to find out he's reading my gay Johnlock romance stories._

_I am just the good ship angst today, aren't I? Angstaholics Anonymous, my dear Sherlock ADD buddy ;)_

_Enjoy! :D_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"What is _this_?"

Sherlock looked up from the couch. "A tuxedo."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, no shit, Sherlock. I meant, why was there a tuxedo sitting on my bed?"

"It's for a case."

John sighed. "Right. And why?"

"Why?"

John growled in frustration. "Why the hell am I wearing a tuxedo for a case, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked over at him, face mildly amused. "No need to get touchy, John."

John let out a large sigh.

Sherlock sensed trouble coming and sat up. "We need to go to a formal dinner. There's an assassin who wants to kill Mycroft." He stood and walked towards his bedroom, dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. "God knows I support the assassin, but my brother insists that mummy would blame me if he died."

He turned back towards John. "We're leaving in half an hour. Be dressed and ready, because I doubt Mycroft will wait. You know how he is."

The bedroom door slammed shut.

John just stood there for a moment, processing what he had just heard. He shook his head and walked to the bathroom.

He would never understand the Holmes brothers.

* * *

A few hours later John found himself standing in the corner of a grand ballroom, sweating slightly in the too-small tuxedo and holding a cocktail, really hoping that they could catch the assassin quickly and get home before midnight.

Sherlock sidled up next to him, also in a tuxedo, holding a small shot glass of what looked like vodka. "Have you spotted anything suspicious?"

John shook his head. "Not unless you count the duke with the purple sash sneaking off with the lady in the white gown."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and waved his hand. "No, no…they've been having an affair for over a year now."

John's eyes widened. "Oh."

Sherlock peered around the room. Suddenly, his body went completely stiff. John followed the path of his eyes to see a tall man in a formal suit with a bushy moustache standing in the corner. His hand was inside his jacket, and if John looked hard enough he could see the outline of a gun in the man's pocket.

"John…" Sherlock trailed off. "Listen carefully, and do exactly as I say. Will you do this for me?"

John broke off his gazing at the man and looked at Sherlock. "Yeah…yeah, sure."

Sherlock peered over at the man and then back at John. "I need you to stay here and watch Mycroft. Track his position. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere near that man."

John nodded. Sherlock reached down and gave his hand a quick squeeze, then disappeared into the crowd.

John's eyes darted over to Mycroft, following the government man's movements. He didn't seem to be going anywhere. He was simply standing near a crowd of people, Anthea nearby, drinking out of a tall wine glass.

"He doesn't seem to be going anywhere…" John muttered to himself. He looked around to find Sherlock and was filled with alarm when he saw the detective standing behind the assassin.

He began to push his way through the crowd, but he was too late. Sherlock sprang forward and pinned the man to the ground. Screams echoed through the room and the two men wrestled on the floor.

John pushed his way through the crowd. However, before he got there he heard the sound of one gunshot, followed shortly by another. Sherlock leapt off the assassin, who went limp, blood spilling from a hole in the side of his neck.

Mycroft jogged over, and in a strangely perverse way, not for the first time since meeting Sherlock, John had a strong desire to giggle. He had never seen Mycroft run before, and something about it was immensely entertaining. It dissipated quickly, however, and he sprinted over as well.

"Well, well, brother," Mycroft said coolly. "Good work. Though I'm not quite sure I approve of your chosen,..methods."

He turned to the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please adjourn to the Silver Ballroom, I would be most grateful. Any needs you have will, of course, be compensated and fulfilled by my lovely assistant."

Anthea followed the grumbling crowd out of the room, tapping away furiously on her Blackberry.

John looked over at Sherlock. "Gotta admit…you had me worried for a bit."

Sherlock nodded and winced. His face was pale, eyes full of pain.

An alarm went off in John's head. "Sherlock?" he said gently, leaning down next to the detective. "What's wrong?"

"I…" Sherlock broke off. He looked up at John, eyes unreadable.

Mycroft noticed what was happening and leaned down with John, looking at his brother. "Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock's gaze swung from John to Mycroft and back to John. "He…shot…me…"

His hand came off his arm and a bloodstain bloomed on his sleeve.

Sherlock swayed and the world went dark.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes slowly fluttered open. Shapes were shifting around him in a dark room. He was lying on a soft bed-a hospital bed. There was one figure sitting next to his bed, leaning over him and looking worried.

_John._

"John," Sherlock said, his voice hoarse.

John sat down and took the detective's hand. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got shot."

John coughed. "Well…actually…"

"John, I know what happened."

John's body relaxed, the tension leaving his eyes, replaced by relief. "Oh, thank god. I was afraid you'd lost your memory or something."

"I'm all here, as far as I know."

"We-ell, that might be going a bit far," John said with a wry grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes carefully. "Why thank you for the astute observation on my mental health, John."

"You're very welcome, Sherlock."

Silence fell over the room.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

A pause.

"We are never going to a ballroom dance again."

A firm nod from the detective.

"Agreed."


	20. Always Remember That Night

_A/N; This was inspired by a performance by a solo artist at today's concert (Literally, I've had five concerts in a row, and another tomorrow). She sang O Holy Night, and it was b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l. It made me think of really romantic Johnlock on a cold winter's night. Which is what this challenge is. Short, but sweet :3_

_Enjoy, my friends :) As usual, dedicated to my dear Sherlock ADD buddy…Prompts are the best, aren't they?_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

It was a typical evening in 221b. John was sitting on the couch, reading a book and absentmindedly carding his fingers through Sherlock's long, silky curls. The snow was falling softly outside, moonlight sending thin silver beams across the carpet. The radio was playing Christmas carols, slow and romantic.

"John?" Sherlock asked lazily.

"What, 'Lock?" John asked, putting down his book on the table next to them.

"We should dance."

"Dance?"

"Yes."

John stopped and nodded. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are a genius."

"Yes, John, I'm well aware," Sherlock said, grinning slightly.

"And ever so humble as well," John said. He stood, pulling Sherlock up with him. "Come on, then."

They moved to the center of the living room as O Holy Night began to play. John pulled Sherlock in close, wrapping his arms around him and tracing small circles on his shoulder blades. Sherlock put his long arms around the army doctor, placing small kisses on the top of his head.

They rocked gently back and forth to the hauntingly beautiful rendition of the song. Moonbeams lit up the room, illuminating the snowflakes falling outside. The gentle glow of the lamps created a cozy feel, warming the room as they stepped together in a lasting embrace.

Sherlock and John stayed like that for hours, even after the song changed. They eventually migrated down to the floor and fell asleep, each wrapped tightly around the other, silver streaks of moonlight covering them like a blanket as the stars shone brightly in the sky.

They would always remember that night.


	21. Cooking 101 With Sherlock Holmes

_A/N; For the pretty pretty color formatted version, go on over to my tumblr, anonymoustache_is_sherlocked . tumblr . com. :D It's fairly epic, I would say._

_Happy Holidays to all my people. Love you guys...you keep me going on the worst day :)_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

_Cooking 101 With Sherlock Holmes_

_Recorded by John Watson_

_Uncut Version_

_Sherlock_; Hello.

_*Silence*_

_John_; Ah, Sherlock? You can start now.

_Sherlock_; I know, John, I know. Don't be bothersome. *coughs* Hello. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I'll be your instructor for tonight.

_John_; Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, you're recording a holiday cooking session, not teaching a class.

_Sherlock_; Hush, John. You're not adding to the ambience.

_*pause*_

_Sherlock_; First off, you're going to need a few simple tools. First of all, a lighter.

_John_; Sherlock, why the fuck would they need a lighter?

_Sherlock_; Language, John, language. Remember, we're sending this out to everyone. Besides, the lighter is for a good purpose.

_John_; Like what?

_Sherlock_; Like lighting candles.

_John_; You know you actually have to bake the cake before you light the candles.

_Sherlock_; Merely a meretricious detail, John. *coughs* Now, to get back to our original conversation…

_*John rolls his eyes*_

_Sherlock_; You'll also need three salamanders, a test tube, a roll of paper towels, and a jar of hydrochloric acid.

_John_; Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what kind of a cake are you baking?

_Sherlock_; Who said I was baking a cake?

_John_; Who said…Sherlock, I told you, this is supposed to be a Christmas cooking video for our friends!

_Sherlock_; And it is, John. I'm cooking salamanders.

_John_; Sherlock, this is not okay. We need to talk.

_Sherlock_; We are talking, John, don't be stupid.

_John;_ Sherlock!

_Sherlock_; Yes?

_*John facepalms*_

_John_; Never mind. Just…nevermind.

_*Long silence*_

_Sherlock_; So may I cook the salamanders now?

END OF RECORDING


	22. What Would He Do Without Him

_A/N; MERRY CHRISTMAS, MY DEAR FRIENDS! I hope you all had a great Christmas :) Remember that I love each and every one of you._

_I'm sorry I'm so behind on everything. Why December's got to be so goddamn busy I don't know. However, I did finally get some writing time. Not as much as I'd like, but I promise that tomorrow (and Thursday and Friday) I will get some serious writing time in._

_*insert clip of Benedict Cumberbatch*_

_"Promise."_

_;)_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"Sherlock, watch your left!"

Sherlock threw a blind punch as he kicked at the gang member in front of him.

"Thanks, John!"

"No problem."

John hit his opponent over the head with a garbage can lid, knocking him out for the count. He turned, intent on helping Sherlock, and found himself in a tight headlock.

_Well, shit._

He watched as Sherlock fought desperately against the much larger man, throwing punches at random. The man laughed maliciously and kicked him hard in the ribs, enough to leave a large bruise.

Sherlock fell to his knees as the man kicked him again and again, throwing vicious punches at the detective. Sherlock didn't cry or yell. He simply sat there, eventually falling onto his side, blood trickling out of the corners of his mouth, eyes blackened.

John winced with every impact, every blow.

Finally, after what seemed like a millennia, the large man stopped. He leaned down to the beaten and bruised detective.

"That'll teach you not to mess with us, Holmes," he said in a gruff accent. He motioned to the man holding John in a headlock. He released the army doctor, who pulled away and straightened his jumper, giving him an indignant glare. The man glared right back and, picking up their fallen comrade, followed the large man out of the alleyway.

John watched them go, making sure they were gone before he dropped down to Sherlock's side, heart fluttering with panic.

"Sherlock…Sherlock, c'mon, stay with me…"

"Wasn't planning on going anywhere…" Sherlock said, split lip spilling scarlet blood onto his alabaster neck.

"Come on, 'Lock…let's get you home and patch you up," John said. He carefully put an arm underneath Sherlock's and helped him to sit up. The detective groaned and grabbed his rib cage, face filled with pain.

"I know, Sherlock…we just gotta get you home…"

* * *

Half an hour later, they were at the door to Baker Street. John, supporting a half-conscious Sherlock, rang the doorbell, ignoring the strange looks they were getting from passersby.

"Hello-oh my goodness!" she exclaimed, a horrified look appearing on her face.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson," John said apologetically. "We got into a little scuffle. Can you let us in?"

"O-of course," she said, regaining her composure. She opened the door. "Is there anything you need?"

"No, just some peace and quiet," John said, pulling Sherlock in and carefully helping him up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson watched them go, a worried look on her face.

"Thank goodness for John," she said to herself, leaning against the stair post.

"I don't know what Sherlock would do without him."


	23. I Feel Nothing

_A/N; I don't even know if rats have kidneys. But it's worth a shot. XP_

_I listened to Paradise by Coldplay and Gravity by Vienna Teng while writing this. FEEEEEEELS_

_Dedicated to my dear Sherlock ADD buddy. Broadripple Is Burning=Awesomeness._

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"Sherlock, what the hell?"

Sherlock looked up, an irritatingly blank look on his face. "What?"

"You left a bloody jar of fingers in my socks drawer!"

"So?"

John growled. "Sherlock, chopped fingers do not belong in the _flat_, much less my socks drawer!

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, there was nowhere else to put them. The refrigerator was full-"

"Of what?" John asked, spreading his hands dramatically.

"The eyes were on the top shelf, the pig spleens were in the vegetable drawer, and the rat kidneys are in the butter container."

"Exactly!" John burst out. "Sherlock, I've had quite enough of this!"

"But John…"

"No!" John said angrily. "I've had enough of rat kidneys and salamander eyes and all this shit you insist on putting me through!"

"You knew what you signed up for, though," Sherlock said heatedly. "Didn't you?"

"I thought maybe you'd take into consideration my personal preference of not having body parts in my bran flakes!"

"I don't even keep them in the cereal box, John, don't be ridiculous…"

"You know what, Sherlock, keeping them with the vegetables is bad enough…"

"Well, what about you, John, keeping that gun by your bedside all the time…"

"At least I don't like to whip corpses for fun…"

"Yes, but at least I have a brain in my head, as opposed to the general commonwealth…"

John threw his hands up in the air, voice hoarse from yelling.

"For once, could you just try to not be such a _freak_?"

Sherlock stopped cold.

"W-what?" he said softly, voice breaking.

John slapped a hand over his own mouth. He removed it and slapped his own forehead. "Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, I'm sorry…I didn't mean-"

"Yes, you did," Sherlock said quietly. "You meant exactly that, John."

Sherlock stood up and walked robotically towards his bedroom.

"Sherlock…" John reached out a hand, that single word filled with sorrow.

Sherlock turned. His eyes held no emotion.

"I thought I'd found someone who could tolerate me."

He turned and placed his hand on the doorknob.

"Apparently I was wrong."

* * *

John sat down heavily onto the couch, putting his head in his hands.

_Well, John, you've really fucked things up now._

_Way to go._

He stood up and went into the kitchen, towards the cupboard. Opening it, he pulled out a bottle of wine, turning it around to look at the label.

_Tonight was supposed to be our date night._

_We were going to stay in and watch a movie and get drunk._

John unscrewed the lid and poured a glass full, stopping it back up when he was done.

_Not any more._

He walked back to the living room and sat down in his chair, staring out the window at the stormy sky.

John took a sip from his glass and listened as the rain began to fall against the roof of 221b.

* * *

Sherlock sat down on the bed, tears falling from his eyes.

_I thought it was him._

_I thought it was_.

He leaned back and lay down on the soft mattress, staring up at the ceiling.

_Apparently I was wrong._

Sherlock lay there for a few more minutes, then sat up and walked over to his dresser.

_Just one more lost cause._

He could hear Mycroft's voice in his head.

_"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

He reached into the very bottom drawer and shoved his hand under a stack of old shirts, searching.

_"All hearts are broken."_

He pulled out a gleaming razor blade.

_"Remember that."_

Sherlock put the sharp metal bit to his arm.

_I feel nothing._

Drops of blood splattered the floor.

* * *

John stood up from his chair, putting down his wine glass on the side table.

_I need to apologize._

He walked over to the bedroom door and, taking a deep breath, knocked quietly.

"Sherlock?" he said softly. "Can I come in?"

No sound came from within.

"Come on, love," he said gently. "I just want to apologize."

Still no sound.

"Sherlock, I love you," he said, voice filled with emotion. "I love you more than anything. And I never meant to call you that. It just…slipped. Everyone says things they regret when they're angry…even you."

He paused, leaning against the doorframe.

"Please let me in, 'Lock."

There was still no sound.

Then, he heard the lock click and the door swung open.


	24. Fix You

Sherlock stood in front of John, face pale. His left arm was clutched tightly against the side of his rumpled white shirt.

"Sherlock…you okay?" John asked as the detective swayed slightly.

"I…I'm not quite sure…" Sherlock murmured. He moved his left arm slightly away from his side, hand shaking.

John tilted his head, peering at the side of Sherlock's shirt. "Hang on…Sherlock, is that blood?"

Sherlock made a subtle turn away from the doctor. "No. Now if you'll excuse me…"

John blocked his way. "Uh-uh. Not until you tell me what's going on."

"Nothing is 'going on', John," Sherlock said, an underlying tone of desperation to his voice. "I just need to…"

He trailed off, stumbling forward slightly, what little color there had been in his face leaving.

John grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him backwards into the bedroom, helping him to sit down on the bed. Sherlock didn't resist, instead wrapping his arms around himself, one over the other.

John kneeled down in front of him, making his face level with the detective's own.

"Please let me in, sweetheart. What's going on?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, no…" he whispered under his breath.

"Yes." John said, quietly but firmly. His next phrase was whispered in the gentlest voice Sherlock had ever heard.

"I love you."

John pulled Sherlock's arms away from his chest and took his left arm in his hands. The white sleeve was stained with ribbons of red, turned scarlet against the stark pearlescent color.

He slowly unbuttoned the cuffs, eyes never leaving Sherlock's tear-streaked face. John rolled the sleeve up to reveal a series of shallow, short cuts traveling up Sherlock's pale porcelain arm.

John reached a hand underneath the bed and pulled out a compact first aid kit. Giving Sherlock a kind smile, he pulled out a few plasters and some gauze.

"Since when did you start keeping a first aid kit underneath our bed?" Sherlock asked, sniffling.

"Since I started loving you," John said, cleaning the cuts as carefully as he could.

Sherlock couldn't think of anything to say. John continued his doctoring, an ironically peaceful silence filling the room.

"John…" he blurted.

John finished putting on the plasters. "What is it, love?"

Sherlock paused. "Why aren't you…" he trailed off, for once unsure of how to phrase what he was thinking.

John smiled, a half-moon crooked smile that broke Sherlock's heart in two. "Because you, my Sherlock, are the best thing that's ever happened to me. Body parts in the refrigerator and everything." He put the last plaster in place and took Sherlock's hands in his own.

"I meant it when I said I didn't mean it," John whispered, leaning in and placing a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"I could never mean it."

His lips rested there for what seemed to be hours, wrapping them in a blissful cocoon of hazy love and warmth.

Sherlock finally pulled back, squeezing John's hands ever so slightly.

"But aren't you…"

"Worried? Yes. Scared? Yes. Concerned? Very." John said, moving up to sit next to Sherlock on the bed. "I'm all of those and more."

John leaned in closer. "But you know what?"

He took his hands out of Sherlock's and placed them on his cheeks, caressing his silky alabaster skin.

"Everyone has scars on their soul. Everyone has something inside them that needs to be fixed."

He slowly pulled Sherlock in close, cradling the detective against his chest.

"We can fix you, Sherlock."

"We can fix you."


	25. Forever And For Always

"So, in conclusion, the killer was not her aunt; rather, it was her aunt's brother's _wife_, who accused her sister-in-law of the crime."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed at the revelation of Sherlock's latest deduction.

"Elementary," Sherlock sniffed.

"No, really, Sherlock…I don't know how you do it." John said, astonished. "What you do is truly amazing."

"I…" Sherlock's gaze softened. "Thank you, John."

John gave Sherlock a gentle smile as they stood next to the corpse, his eyes meeting Sherlock's.

"God, I could stare into your eyes all day," John whispered, staring at the beautiful grey-green eyes that adorned Sherlock's face.

"Rest assured, the sentiment is returned," Sherlock mumbled, face heating up. His gaze didn't move from John's face.

John moved closer, carefully intertwining the fingers on his left hand with Sherlock's. "Do you know what I thought when I first saw you?"

"Do tell," Sherlock said, ducking his head down to level with John's own.

John moved forward until his dusky pink lips were hovering just in front of Sherlock's own. The detective could feel his lover's every quiver by the closeness of his mouth.

"I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

"Do you know what I thought?" Sherlock whispered back, mouth traveling down past John's chin as he breathed hot, spicy air onto the doctor's pale neck.

"N-no…" John gasped.

"This." Sherlock said, and he leaned in and began to rain hot, wet kisses down John's neck.

John arched his neck back as Sherlock nipped at the hollow just below his ear, leaving a small, dark bruise there.

"Oh, God, Sherlock…" he muttered.

"I love you, John…you are the bravest person I know, the wisest (myself exempt, of course) and, above all, the one I love the most," Sherlock whispered into his neck, wrapping his arms around the doctor.

A quiet, shocked silence filled the room for a moment.

Sherlock pulled away slightly and looked into John's beautiful ocean blue eyes. "Bit not good?" he asked worriedly.

"No, no…Sherlock, that was beautiful!" John said, a huge smile breaking onto his face. "I just…that might be the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, love."

"Okay," Sherlock said, letting out a breath. "I was, admittedly, a bit worried."

John shook his head fondly and leaned in close, wrapping his arms around his love. "Oh, Sherlock. You are…you are…" John trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words.

John could feel Sherlock smile into his hair. "Lovably annoying?"

"You're…" John hesitated. "You're everything. You're cheer and sadness and rain and sun and bad days and good days all rolled up into one beautiful, beautiful mess of a man." He pulled back ever so slightly and looked up into Sherlock's eyes. They were gleaming with a sheen that told of comfort, love, and-foreign to Sherlock-_a sense of belonging_.

They stayed like that for several minutes until, finally, John pulled back a bit. The look on his face told of almost delirious happiness

"That's it, Sherlock," he said. "I can't wait any longer. I was going to do this in a month or two, maybe add a few subtle hints in…but I don't think subtle has ever been a big thing in our relationship."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, still smiling. "Well, spit it out, John. Whatever are you talking about?"

* * *

Outside the morgue room were Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, and Molly, still waiting for Sherlock and John to finish their 'deductions'.

"Jesus Christ. It's a morgue, not a fucking park bench!" Anderson said, peering in through the blinds.

"Oh, stop it, Craig, they're just kissing," Molly said gently from where she stood next to him, also peeking in on the happy couple.

"Do they look like they're any closer to solving the case?" Lestrade asked impatiently.

"Depends on what case you're talking about," Sally said, raising a knowing eyebrow from where she sat in a nearby chair, nursing a coffee.

"What…John's pulling away!" Molly said indignantly.

"Uh-oh…trouble in paradise," Anderson said in an irritating singsong voice, stepping away from the window to join Sally by the chair.

"He's…oh my god…Greg, he's kneeling down!"

Greg's face paled. "Oh, God…please don't tell me he's going to…"

Molly shook her head excitedly. "No, no…not that kind of kneeling. He's…he's pulling out a little box! He's opening it…he's on one knee! Oh, _John_…"

"What?" Greg said, eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. He ran over and joined Molly at the blinds, followed closely by Sally and Anderson.

"Oh…my…god…" Sally said faintly.

"Someone's finally proposed to the freak."

* * *

Sherlock pulled his lips away, gasping for breath, a large, slightly sappy smile on his face.

"I'm assuming that's a yes?" John said, lips full and bruised from the passionate kiss.

"A thousand times yes, my love," Sherlock whispered, leaning his forehead against John's and twisting the delicate new silver band on his ring finger.

Sherlock and John would never figure out why the sound of clapping and cheers seemed to echo through the lab that day.

And what was engraved on the inside of the shining grey circle?

_Forever and for always_


	26. Especially You

_A/N; Before Mycroft gave his best man's speech for Sherlock, Greg gave one for John. Just a little bit of bonus feature there XP_

_Happy holidays!_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly. Bright morning light filled the room, birds chirping outside the flat. John was cuddled up next to him, rough hand resting on Sherlock's bare chest.

Sherlock smiled, butterflies in his stomach.

_Today's the day._

He leaned over and kissed John's forehead. "Good morning, John," he whispered.

John's eyes fluttered open, ocean blue greeting Sherlock. Glittering patches of light threaded through John's beautiful blond hair. "Hello, love," he said softly, leaning over and placing a chaste kiss on Sherlock's plump lips as he wrapped his arms around the detective.

They lay there for a few minutes, languid, lounging in the sunshiny warmth that filled the room with a soft golden glow, comfortable silence surrounding them like a blanket.

John turned his eyes to Sherlock, a smile breaking his face. "We're getting married today."

"Yes. I know." Sherlock said, taking his fiancée's hand in his own and squeezing gently.

"Nervous?"

"Yes."

"_Too_ nervous?"

"Never."

* * *

Greg looked around the church, shifting in his slightly-too-small suit.

"Bit small, innit?"

Mycroft shrugged in that way he did, twirling his umbrella between his fingers. "John and Sherlock both decided they wanted a…_small _wedding. As opposed to my original idea."

Greg raised an eyebrow, picking up a hymnal and flipping through it. "What was the original, then?"

"Westminster chapel," Mycroft said calmly, tapping his fingers on the umbrella.

Greg dropped the hymnal onto his foot.

* * *

"Oh, weddings just make me cry so much!"

Molly patted Mrs. Hudson on the back, handing her a tissue. "I know, Martha…we all do."

"Though most of us wait until the wedding actually starts," Sally whispered to Sarah. They both began to giggle, Molly shooting them a glare.

Sally rolled her eyes and handed Molly yet another box of tissues, grabbing her shoes from the table. "This must be awkward for you, though," she mentioned to Sarah, pulling on the heels.

"Why?" Sarah asked curiously, holding up the mirror and carefully drawing on some eyeliner.

"Well…didn't you and John used to date?" Sally asked, painting some clear nail polish over a run in her stockings.

"Yes, actually." Sarah said, standing up and stepping into her own shoes. "But I could always tell…women's intuition, you know. He would always leave our dates early to get home to Sherlock. When a man leaves you halfway through your date just because he received a text from someone else, you can tell what's _really_ going on."

Sally nodded sagely. "Very true. 'Course, it was no great leap with the freak. Most of us figured Holmes as gay from the start.

"Hey!"

Sally rolled her eyes at the pathologist. "With the exception of Molly, who couldn't take her eyes off him long enough to form an opinion."

"Oh, shut up, Sally. It was a stupid dream," she said, sniffing. "Besides, I'm going steady with George now."

"George? Who's George?" Sarah asked curiously.

Molly blushed as Sally grinned. "DI Dimmock, if you can believe it."

"Dimmock? Molly, that's great!" Sarah said.

Mrs. Hudson blew her nose noisily into her fifth hankie of the morning, honking like a goose.

"Weddings just make me so _happy_!"

All three women rolled their eyes.

* * *

"You look amazing."

Sherlock looked up to see John standing in the doorway of their bedroom, wearing only his black suit trousers, strong bare chest gleaming in the golden light from the window.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, admiring John's beautiful torso as he finished buttoning his purple shirt. John had especially requested he wear it, despite the fact that Mycroft had sent over expensive, fine suits. "What are you wearing, my dear?"

"Dunno," John said, shrugging. "I don't have any nice button shirts like that beauty. Guess I'll have to wear that suit of Mycroft's."

"Oh, god, please no." Sherlock said, shuddering. "I'll never be able to kiss you knowing you're wearing something that's come from Mycroft."

"Well, that can't happen," John said, voice low. He stepped into the room and towards Sherlock, closing the gap between them. "What do you suggest then, love?"

Sherlock grinned mischievously. "Nothing."

"Sherlock!" John said, mock shock coloring his words as he stepped back slightly, laughter on his face. "How inappropriate!"

"I would like it," Sherlock said in his deep baritone.

"I know you would, you tease," John said, grinning. "But I do really need to put something on."

"Well…" Sherlock said. He trailed off.

"What is it, love?" John asked, slightly apprehensive.

"I…I bought you something…" Sherlock said shyly. He brought a thin, white box out from behind his back and presented it to John.

"Oh, Sherlock!" John cried. He embraced his fiancée and gave him a light, chaste kiss. "Thank you! You didn't have to…"

"I know. But I wanted to," Sherlock said, giving him a crooked grin.

John gave him an appreciative smile and carefully opened the box. He gasped at what he saw.

"Sherlock, this is…this is beautiful! How in the world did you know to get my favorite color?" John asked, astonished.

"It's the color of your eyes, John," Sherlock said gently. He picked up the shirt and held it up against John's bare chest. The color was a deep blue, rich and silky-looking. Small threads of light blue and cerulean ran through it, blending in and making it look as though someone had sewed the ocean waves into a single piece of clothing.

John turned and looked in the mirror. "It's absolutely perfect, Sherlock," he said, caressing the thin fabric. He turned back towards Sherlock and pulled the shirt on. "Exact fit, even!"

Sherlock gave John the biggest smile the doctor had ever seen on Sherlock's face. He reached down and buttoned John up. He left the last one open, just like his own shirt, and placed his hand on John's strong, warm chest, directly above his beating heart.

John reached a hand up and placed it on Sherlock's cool porcelain cheek, rubbing his fingers gently against the edge of his perfect cheekbones. "Oh, Sherlock…it's perfect. Everything's just…perfect."

John pulled the detective into a warm, gentle hug, tracing small circles on his shoulder blades.

"Especially you."

* * *

_A Few Hours Later_

"…And, in conclusion…best wishes to the happy couple; John Watson and Sherlock Holmes!"

Everyone clapped as Mycroft finished his best man's speech and gestured towards the detective and the doctor, raising his champagne glass in a toast.

People began to pop out onto the dance floor as the band began to play.

Sherlock walked over to his brother, fingers linked with John's. He stopped in front of Mycroft and looked away.

After a few minutes, John gave him a nudge.

Sherlock jumped. "Right." He turned to Mycroft. "John says I must thank you for everything you've done for us. So…thank you." Sherlock bowed and, when he stood back up, for the first time in years, stepped forward and hugged Mycroft.

Mycroft stood there in a state of shock for a few moments, before he finally put his arms around his brother and patted him on the back, an uncharacteristic smile breaking through the iceman's face. After a few moments, they both awkwardly pulled away. After all, there was still the sibling rivalry to keep up.

"Though I must say thank you to John as well," Mycroft said formally, nodding his head in the doctor's direction. "Now maybe I can take my eyes off Sherlock for five minutes and he won't blow up a Tesco."

"You'd be there to rescue the donuts," Sherlock sniffed. He turned towards the dance floor and grabbed John's hand again. "Come, John. Let's dance."

John shrugged and mouthed a 'sorry' at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled bemusedly. "Same old Sherlock," he said loud enough for his brother to hear. "Always a pain in the arse."

"I love you too, brother," Sherlock said as he and John walked onto the dance floor.

Mycroft stopped and waited.

"Though you do need to lay off the donuts."

_There it is._

Mycroft smiled contentedly.

His job was done.

Sherlock was married and in good hands with the doctor. He wouldn't need Mycroft's protection or his helping hand as much now.

In a way, Mycroft was sad.

However, there was something he had wanted to accomplish for quite a long time, and he finally had the time to do it.

"Hey, stranger."

Mycroft turned around to find Greg standing behind him, breath tickling his ear. "Hello, Gregory."

"Hey, Mickey," Greg said. He looked around and located Sherlock and John, wrapped in each other's arms with eyes for no one else but each other.

"Look at them," Greg said. "They're perfect for each other. Who woulda thought, huh?" Greg linked his fingers with Mycroft's and leaned his head on his boyfriend's shoulder. "Makes you wonder if we'll ever be that happy one day."

Mycroft grinned.

_Opportunity sometimes shows itself at the strangest times._

"Speaking of us, Gregory, there was something I wanted to ask you…"


	27. Burn (I Love You)

John woke up to the smell of smoke.

He jumped out of bed, waving a hand in front of his face to dispel the smoke, and quickly pulled on a pair of pants, throwing the door open.

"Sherlock?" he yelled. "Sherlock, where are you?"

He heard a faint shout from what sounded like the kitchen.

John skidded towards the room, still waving the smoke from in front of his face. "Sherlock?"

The smoke began to dissipate, revealing an ash-covered consulting detective holding a pancake flipper in one hand and a fire extinguisher. He was staring at the stove in front of him, which held a still-sizzling frying pan with three unidentifiable lumps, burned to a crisp, and a thin layer of grayish ash.

Sherlock looked over at John and stood up straighter, ash sifting from the sleeves of his charred white shirt to the floor below. "Happy birthday, John. Did you have a good night's sleep?"

John stared at the kitchen, at the burnt pancakes in the pan, at Sherlock, covered with smoke and ash and a huge fake smile…

And burst out laughing.

Sherlock's eyebrows went straight up to his hairline. "John?" he asked, unsure.

"S-Sherlock…" John giggled.

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you find so funny, John Watson," Sherlock said stiffly. One of his curls fell down onto his forehead, flopping limply onto his eye.

John stopped laughing for a moment…then started again.

"Oh, Sherlock…" he said, tears in his eyes. "Don't ever change, okay?"

"John, sometimes you confuse me to no end," Sherlock said.

John just shook his head, still laughing silently. "Angelo's?" he asked when he finally was under control.

Sherlock nodded. "Unless you want to eat this," he said, gesturing to the blackened lumps in the pan, "Yes."

John grinned. "I'm going to get dressed. Why don't you try and clean up a bit before we go?" he said, gesturing to Sherlock's ash-covered and charred clothes.

Sherlock sighed and nodded, setting down the pancake flipper and the extinguisher. "Yes…that would probably be a good idea."

He walked past John, keeping his head down.

John turned and grabbed the detective's arm. "Hey, hey…Sherlock, I'm not mad. This…it was an accident, that's all." He laughed kindly, joining their fingers together. "Hell, I'm impressed you actually attempted to make me _breakfast_."

He put his fingers under Sherlock's chin and tipped it up to look into Sherlock's beautiful turquoise eyes.

"I love you so much, 'Lock. I will never stop loving you…even if you do almost burn our flat to the ground making breakfast."

Sherlock stood there for a moment, staring into John's beautiful ocean eyes, then stepped forward and wrapped John in a warm, soft hug. "Thank you, John."

"Anytime, love," John whispered, rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock's sharp shoulder blades. He pulled back and looked up at Sherlock, a twinkle in his eye.

"Now go get dressed in some non-burned clothes, you lovable git."


	28. Walk Like A Murderer

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

A pause.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock shifted his hands, wincing. "Isn't it obvious, John? I'm standing on my hands."

John looked at the consulting detective curiously. "Yeah, I got that, actually. What I'm wondering is _why_."

Sherlock flipped over carefully, landing on his posterior. He rubbed his hands and winced. "I have a theory."

"About the case?"

Sherlock nodded, shaking his hands to get some feeling back to them. "Mrs. Mauson was found dead in the dining room, knife through her heart. If you remember, there was quite a significant bit of rain the night before she was murdered, and all of the outside areas were extremely muddy. The killer had to have snuck in sometime between that night and the night she was killed, as her security team did a full check on the house the night it rained and found nothing. However, there were no footprints." He blew on his hands and put them on the floor, preparing to try again. "The question is, how did the killer get in without leaving marks on the floor?"

John sat down in a desk chair and thought for a moment. "He could have taken his shoes off?"

Sherlock shook his head and, turning, braced his feet against the wall of the small Scotland Yard office they were in. "Where would the shoes have gone?"

John shrugged. "Into the fire?"

"There was nothing in the fire. I checked all of them."

"Well, maybe he took them off before he went in."

Sherlock pushed up against the wall, slowly crawling back with his hands. "Use your head, John, that's why it's there. _The shoes had to go somewhere_," he said in an intense voice, slowly pulling himself upright. "There were no shoes anywhere in the vicinity except which belonged to someone in the house."

John crossed his arms. "Maybe it was one of the people in the house, then."

"No," Sherlock said, balancing on one hand and waving the other carelessly. "There's only Mrs. Mauson, two maids, a butler, and a small security team of five. All of the servants check out; each one had a plausible alibi and clean background checks."

John pointed a finger at Sherlock, cocking his head. "What if it was a _suicide_?"

"A suicide? Really, John?" Sherlock said, raised an eyebrow. "Use your brain. It wasn't. Mrs. Mauson was not depressed, in money trouble, or in any bad situations. Besides, I feel it in my bones, John. It was murder."

"Okay…" John said, thinking hard. "So you think it was a murder, and that the murderer got in by walking on his _hands_?"

"Yes! Brilliant, John!" Sherlock said, pushing off from the wall and wobbling onto his hands. He began to take careful steps forward, balancing all his weight on his hands.

"Sounds plausible," John said thoughtfully.

"Exactly!" Sherlock said heatedly, slowly moving his hands in a circle. "But Lestrade doesn't believe me."

"What?" John said, raising an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"He said it was a stupid thought. 'No one can walk on their hands', he said." Sherlock said, frowning.

Sherlock rolled his feet over and collapsed onto the floor at John's feet. He looked up, panting. "Want me to teach you?"

John tilted his head and put his thinking face on. "Sherlock…I have an idea."

"What sort?"

John smiled.

"One that'll get Greg to believe you."

* * *

Half an hour later, the door to the conference room opened. Lestrade looked up from where he was standing by the coffee machine and donuts with Sally and Anderson.

"About time!" he said, grinning. "We thought maybe you two were getting it on in there, you took so damn long."

However, no one came out.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said questioningly.

He heard a shuffling noise from inside the room and cocked his head to the side, frowning.

_What the bloody hell are they doing?_

Years from now, everyone would still remember the time Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked out of conference room 1b on their hands, to the stunned astonishment of one Gregory Lestrade.

And no one ever really doubted the word of Sherlock Holmes again.


	29. Returned Tenfold

"John?"

John looked up from his book to see Sherlock standing in the door of 221b. "Hey, love."

"I…brought you something."

John set the book down and smiled. "Really?" He gave Sherlock a mock frown. "It's not a head, is it?"

"Noooo…" Sherlock said, walking over to stand in front of John as he grinned wickedly. "But I could give you that…later."

John raised his eyebrows and smiled saucily. "Really? Well…"

Sherlock pulled a small brown box out from behind his back. "This is…well, it's just a small thing. But I thought maybe you'd enjoy it."

John took the box from him, smiling gently up at his love. "Thank you, Sherlock." He carefully opened the box and, upon folding away the tissue paper, gasped. "Sherlock…this is perfect!"

He pulled out a small, brown notebook with a simple but lovely golden pen. As he picked up the pen and turned it on its side, the gleam of engraved letters caught his eye.

_Captain John H. Watson, MD_

He turned it over and found the same words that were on both his and Sherlock's rings.

_Forever and for always_

"Oh, Sherlock…" he breathed. "Thank you so much. It's beautiful."

"I know you like to write down our cases, so I thought this might be helpful to keep on hand if you ever lack access to a computer," Sherlock said shyly.

John set the notebook and the beautiful pen down on the table and stood up, pulling Sherlock into a warm, tight hug. He placed his lips gently on Sherlock's, slowly sliding his tongue against the detective's upper lip.

"God…John…love you so much…" Sherlock mumbled against the army doctor's moist, warm mouth. "Perfect…"

John nodded vigorously, rubbing circles on Sherlock's sharp shoulder blades. "Love you…too…"

Finally, after several minutes they pulled apart, both gasping for air.

"God, Sherlock…I don't know what I would do without you." John said, grinning as he caught his breath.

"Rest assured…" Sherlock said, pausing for a breath. "…that the sentiment is returned tenfold."

They leaned against each other, overcome by the passion of the kiss.

"One more thing, John…" Sherlock said, holding up a hand. John looked up at him, meeting the detective's beautiful turquoise-jade eyes with his own.

"You kiss beautifully."

John smiled and went in for another.


	30. Always Love You (A Love For The Ages)

_A/N; IT IS THE END._

_Just a warning ;)_

_As most of you know by now, I did this story for the 30 day OTP challenge with my dear, dear friend RainyDays-And-DayDreams, my Sherlock ADD buddy. Thank you so, so, so much, Rainy. We laughed, we cried, we screamed, and we tried not to fangirl too much…but it was the most fun I've ever had writing a story. You are the best, and you've kept me going at a time when not much could. Thank you…truly :) Washed-Up Fangirls forever!_

_Thank you thank you THANK YOU also to my dear followers, favoriters, readers, and reviewers! You guys are the best…I love reading your reviews and watching that little number go up on the statistics chart. I love every one of you from the bottom of my deep, dark, dangerous soul ;)_

_Songs I Listened To While Writing This; Love Remains The Same by Gavin Rossdale, Good Enough by Evanescence, and A Drop In The Ocean by Ron Pope. Listen…just listen. Preferably while you read._

_The challenge for this was "Doing Something Hot". Not porn, but…I'd say this qualifies. I cried while writing it, anyways :'). To quote the BBC…"Sorry for the feels."_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"So…you thought you could outsmart Tommy Boyd, Mr. Holmes?"

The murderer standing in front of Sherlock shook his head. "No one fools Tommy. _No one_."

Sherlock shifted, running through every possibility of escape in his mind.

_The door…blocked._

_Hands…tied. _

_Slip knot?_

_Nope, regular._

_Where's John?_

"Now, you will die," Tommy said in a morbidly happy voice, grinning.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring.

"Oi!" Tommy said angrily. "I mean it!"

"No, you aren't." Sherlock drawled in his best irritating voice. "Don't be stupid."

The murderer drew a knife and, stepping up to Sherlock in one large stride, putting the point of the sharp metal at the detective's throat.

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "Not so sure _now_, are we, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock sat for a moment, staring down at the knife that was poking into his pale alabaster skin. Then, he looked up at the psychotic killer in front of him.

"There's something I know that you don't," Sherlock said calmly.

"Really? Like what?" Tommy asked in a bored voice, pushing the tip into Sherlock's neck and drawing drops of scarlet blood.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the killer, bored written all over his face as blood dripped down his neck towards his chest.

"You're also going to die."

A shot rang out and Tommy Boyd fell to his side, eyes wide, a bloody hole in the side of his head.

John ran over to Sherlock, shoving his gun down the side of his trousers and dropping to his knees by the detective. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Yes, fine…" Sherlock said distractedly. He sniffed the air.

_Is that…smoke?_

"You're hurt!" John said, panic evident in his voice as he saw the small beads of blood that decorated Sherlock's collarbones.

"It's nothing, John, really," Sherlock said. "How did you get in here?"

"Through that door…" he said absentmindedly as he began to untie the detective.

"John…John, I need you to stop and listen to me, and think very, very carefully before you answer," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Wha-yeah, okay…" John said, finishing the undoing of the knots.

"John!" Sherlock said fiercely.

John froze and looked up. "What?"

Sherlock pulled his hands free from the remaining bonds and grabbed John's shoulders. "On your way in, did you happen to notice any gas cans anywhere nearby?"

"Uh…yeah, there was one just outside the door there," he said, gesturing to the door he had just come through.

Sherlock swore under his breath and leapt up, running towards the door. However, just before he got there it slammed shut, a malicious laugh traveling through it.

Sherlock kicked the door, but it was futile. Smoke began to waft in underneath the frame.

"What's…" John said, confused.

"Tommy Boyd had an accomplice," Sherlock said bitterly. "I…didn't realize until it was too late."

"Oh." John said, realizing what that meant.

"Yes," Sherlock said, nodding with a sigh. He turned back around and began to look around the room wildly, searching for anything that could help.

_No windows…_

_Floorboards are sound, as is the ceiling…_

_Conclusion; inevitable._

Sherlock turned to John, who had been watching him the whole time.

"What do we do now?" John asked quietly.

"I…" Sherlock turned away, tears threatening. He spoke the words he hated most of all.

"I don't know."

John stood there for a few moments, silent. Then, he stood up straighter. "Right."

He walked over towards the door.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock asked. "We can't go through there…it's probably gone up in flames by now."

John tested the doorhandle and, finding it to be relatively cool, threw the door open.

The hallway was burning in several places, flames licking up the walls, beams falling. However, John could see a path straight through to the front door that, if navigated carefully, could get them out hopefully unharmed.

He turned to the detective and gestured to the fiery area in front of him.

"John…" Sherlock said hesitantly.

A beam fell right behind Sherlock, almost hitting him. The detective jumped forward, eyes wide.

"Right, let's go, then," Sherlock said, walking briskly towards John.

They stood there for a few moments, watching the hallway burn in front of them.

"Are we really just about to walk through flames and hoping to come out unscathed?" Sherlock muttered.

John reached over and took the detective's hand in his own. He looked up at Sherlock for a moment, ocean eyes meeting jade ones.

"Ready?"

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Yes."

They began to run.

Beams fell around them as they jumped and dodged, avoiding the flames and small puddles of gasoline.

Sherlock ran ahead of John, leaping over a fallen beam and brushing ash off his coat. He turned around and gestured urgently to the doctor. "John, this way!"

"Sherlock…" John's eyes went wide as he saw a beam begin to shake over Sherlock's head.

"MOVE!" John screamed. He ran towards Sherlock and pushed him out of the way just as the beam cracked and broke.

John felt something hit him hard in the head and whispered Sherlock's name over and over until the darkness overtook him.

* * *

Sherlock sat up, breathing heavily, John's dead weight lying across his lap.

He leaned over the doctor, panicky. "John! John, are you okay?"

John didn't respond.

Sherlock turned, looking for their path.

The path was gone.

All that remained was a maze of fallen beams and small patches of fire all around.

"This is all my fault," Sherlock whispered.

He watched the flames grow around them, casting eerie shadows on the wall.

"I'm sorry, John."

Smoke wafted around him, creating a dark grey cloud above the detective's head.

"Wish I could change everything."

As flakes of ash began to drift into Sherlock's hair, a small thought appeared in his mind.

_Maybe I can._

Sherlock turned around again.

The path was almost obliterated.

_Almost._

Sherlock stood up, dragging John up with him. He pulled the army doctor up into his arms, carrying him bride-style, and began to run towards the door.

Beams fell around him, fire crackling. The heat was intense, blistering the detective's skin and singing his curls and clothes. The smoke began to enter his lungs, causing him to cough and choke.

He did not stop.

Finally, he reached the door. Overcome with relief, he shifted John in his arms and grabbed the handle, ignoring the heat.

It was locked.

Sherlock wanted to cry.

He banged hard on the door, bruising his hands, hoping for somebody, _anybody_ to be nearby.

"Help! Please…" he shouted, voice hoarse, hot tears falling onto John's unconscious face.

Suddenly, he heard yelling from outside and, after a few clunks and a string of curse words, the door flew open.

Sherlock found himself face to face with a shocked Lestrade.

"Thank god," he said quietly.

Suddenly, there was a cracking noise from above Sherlock's head. He looked up to see the beam directly above him splitting.

He turned to Lestrade, tears still sliding down his face.

"Tell John I love him."

The beam cracked and began to fall.

Sherlock threw John bodily across the doorstep into Lestrade, who fell to the ground with an unconscious John on top of him.

The beam collapsed on the world's only consulting detective, knocking him to the floor below.

The fiery ceiling began to waver and the screams began to fade as the world slowly turned to inky darkness.

* * *

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!"

"Is he dead?"

"How did it happen?"

"John, come away..."

"He's dead, John, let's face it…"

"No! He's not…he can't be dead…not again…"

"John…come away now…come on…"

John felt soft hands on his shoulders, pulling at his ash-covered coat.

"I'm sorry…"

"God, no…not now…Sherlock…"

Tears began to slide down his face.

"I know, John, it's hard, but you need to come away…"

"No…Sherlock…Sherlock…"

A broken sob.

Tears rained down on the dark, bloodstained ground as the fire still crackled in the distance, smoke turning the air thick and dark.

Rain began to fall.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes flew open.

He sucked in a deep breath and turned onto his side, coughing and hacking.

John spun back around as Lestrade attempted to lead him away from the body.

"Sherlock…" he breathed.

"John," Sherlock croaked, raindrops washing away the blood on his face. "John, I'm sorry…"

John ran back to him and fell down beside him onto his knees, arms lacing around him and pulling him into his lap. "Sherlock…Oh, Sherlock…God…I thought I'd lost you…"

John began to rock back and forth, holding the exhausted detective tight, placing small kisses on his forehead as the rain began to soak them both, washing the smoke and ash from their bodies.

"John…" Sherlock whispered, wet curls clinging to his forehead, water soothing his many burns. "You…saved me."

"Yes," John choked, smiling as tears and raindrops mingled on his cheeks. "But you saved me after that." He leaned down and put his forehead to Sherlock's, rocking them both.

"And I thought I was never going to see you again."

Sherlock smiled and leaned his lips up carefully, placing a gentle kiss on John's cheek.

"I'll always…be here…John," he whispered, voice catching on the army doctor's name.

He pulled John's hand up and let it rest on his chest, just above his heart.

John felt the beat, slow and steady, soft and warm, underneath the palm of his hand.

"I'll always love you."


End file.
